


Words of One Syllable

by GwendolynnFiction



Series: The Words Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American Sign Language, Deaf Character, Foreign Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynnFiction/pseuds/GwendolynnFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The landmine at Baskerville leaves Sherlock deafened. Sherlock teaches John to sign by finally learning to talk to him, while everyone asks why John is willing to do so much for the man. Deaf!Sherlock, Johnlock, Deaf, Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He'd actually managed to hurt him with that. Sherlock didn't quite understand it. Still, the evidence of it was all there: the short, about two second silence that indicated John was processing; his voice deeper by two semitones, perfectly serious, sarcastic the way he only really got when angry or threatened; and the most telling: he walked away and went _outside._ John only ever felt the need to 'get some air' when he was hurt and angry. 

The question was: why? 

There were multiple possibilities. The first was that it wasn't the statement he'd made that made John mad. Not likely, he'd responded to that statement directly 'ever wonder why?'. So, probably the statement itself was at fault – that narrowed the possibilities down considerably. To...four. It was possible the statement was hurtful because he'd said it too many times – a completely irrational sentiment but he'd heard the idea mentioned too many times to not trust it had some emotional content he'd yet to grasp - a statement said too often could 'become' hurtful. 

_God._ Sherlock growled at the fireplace, letting his hands dig into chair beneath him. He hated this. How was he supposed to understand anything if he was supposed to contend with something that was both irrational and yet still possible? Sherlock snarled at a waitress and saw her eyes widen and glance to the kitchens. Yes, she'd bring his tea faster that way – probably by a good 20% improvement. So, frequency was one possibility, still impossible to eliminate. Three others. He'd said it differently in some relevant manner, tone or volume, or there was something about the fact that Sherlock didn't have friends that was somehow hurtful to _John._

_How?_ Sherlock hissed at the fireplace. Volume wasn't likely, John was bothered by excess noise but not hurt by it. And he only ever got angry about it during normal sleeping hours when he was, in fact, trying to sleep. The waitress interrupted him, walking around to his side and clearing her throat too loudly to be natural. 

"Sorry to disturb, now, but we haven't got any of the orange pekoe left, it's all run out. Will a normal black tea suit?" 

Sherlock glanced up. Four options again. They'd run out of tea; she was lying to spite him; someone had lied to her that they'd run out; or there was tea, no one had lied, and she still couldn't find it. She was nervous, fiddling with something in her left trouser pocket. Her eyes kept straying to his open shirt, she leaned in slightly – possibly attracted to him. The thing in her pocket creaked, sounded like something small, hollow, and cheap plastic. Her uniform apron had a nametag on it, almost definitely hers, and the plastic tag was well-worn, had yellowed with time and the corner of the laminate was starting to peel – she had worked here for a long time. There was hair on her blouse; she had a cat or small dog that she carried. Probably no children. Too young for grown children and not sleep deprived enough for young ones. So, not the forth option then, - she'd worked here too long to not know where their second most popular tea was kept unless she was truly incompetent and she'd done well by him so far, disappeared nicely into the background before now so probably not. So, that left options one two and – the plastic in her pocket peaked out suddenly when she shifted – a _straw._

Three options, she was carrying it to give to a customer, she liked to carry trash, or they'd drawn straws. People put random trash into their pockets occasionally but it was rare – a waiter with that habit would go home with pockets full to the brim, unlikely then. It'd been opened, so she wasn't giving it to a customer. And she was worrying it during this encounter, a fairly good sign he hadn't missed anything and that they had in fact drawn straws. Too many possibilities to name behind that action, but as it was still in her pocket and she was touching it now it was _somewhat_ likely that she'd drawn straws on who would tell him the place had run out - and from how very short it had to be to fit in woman's trouser pockets – an average of five centimeters deep and her hands were fitting in as well – she'd lost the bet. So, some tangential evidence that she didn't _want_ to lie to inform him of the lack of tea - less likely she'd done so. So, unless someone else had misplaced the tea, either they'd run out or someone had lied to her that they had done. Best likelihood was, regardless, it wasn't her fault. And apparently there was _some_ possibility that he was an intimidating enough customer to warrant drawing straws. Pathetic, if true. 

"That's fine. Black, two sugars please," he told her and she nodded politely, seeming relieved with the encounter. So pathetic, regardless of straws. 

So it was either the tone he'd used or there was something about saying he didn't have friends that was hurtful. So if it were the content of the statement, presumably John wanted it to not be true or thought that it wasn't – either John wanted him to be friends with him or John wanted him to be friends with some one else. That was totally irrational, why would John care that Sherlock was friends with someone _else? -_ but being as how 'he'd said it too many times' was still in the running, Sherlock had to admit he wasn't in the best position to weigh the statements' likelihood with anything converging on accuracy. John being upset because Sherlock had said he didn't have him as a friend felt the most reasonable but that had been totally fine before. He'd introduced John as a friend and John had accurately corrected him. He'd referred to himself as friendless multiple times even since then. John hadn't even really seemed to pity him when he'd said it, like some people did. What would have _changed?_ The vision of the hound, the public room, the whole village thinking they were a couple? That was all new. Was any of that relevant? 

"What _changed?_ " he shouted at the fireplace and the room got quiet around him. Better. 

_God,_ emotional reasoning didn't get _anywhere._ It all deteriorated in circles, where irrational statements could still be true. _Meaningless._

"Here you are, then," the waitress said. "Would you be needing anything else?" 

Sherlock turned to look at her and met her eyes. There was no use. 

"If I said 'I don't have friends' to you, would you be hurt?" he asked her, peering over her face. She'd had a nose ring years ago, let to heal – irrelevant. She was older than she looked at first – relatively low stress life, out of the sun, smiled a lot – irrelevant. She looked baffled now, and slightly socially awkward. Normal reaction to one of his questions, generally. 

"I … uh, sorry?" she asked, blushing. Blushing? Oh dull _,_ she thought he meant _now._

"No, I'm not going to be hurt by you saying 'no'. You're an idiot, do you know that?" 

Her eyes widened, her teeth clenched. Angry. So no, she probably didn't know that. 

"Back on topic, would you be hurt?" he pressed. 

"N-no," she replied, like that should be obvious. Good, that fit with most evidence – it was fine to say 'I don't have friends' generally. 

"If I were to repeat it a hundred times over, then would you get hurt?" he asked. She was looking at him like he was daft now. Good, so that was supposedly obvious too. 

"No," she replied, starting to glance around the room for an excuse to escape. He needed to speed up. 

"So, what would make that statement hurtful? If I said it differently? Softer, louder, deeper? Public, private, this chair?" 

The woman blinked and her whole face softened except the muscles around her eyes that tightened, crinkling - sympathy now – and he knew she had his answer. 

"If we were friends," she stated, smiling slightly. Condescending pity, that he didn't already know that. So that was supposed to be obvious too. 

"That's useless. Irrelevant. I introduced John as my friend and he refused it – he wasn't scared of the idea, no, he's introduced _Mike Stamford_ of all people as his friend and that man is an _idiot,_ most would be embarrassed to be in public with him – it's his decision I don't have friends, not mine, so how on earth could me acknowledging it hurt _him?"_

She didn't look scared of him now. Great, now all his tea would arrive colder for the rest of their stay. Brilliant. Her eyes flickered to his, her face still soft, and she smiled slightly, almost a smirk but one of those that are somehow universally understood as 'nice'. So she thought she understood him, then. Sherlock returned his gaze to his tea in her hand. Still steaming, too hot to bother taking from her. 

"Let me guess, that was a long time ago?" 

Sherlock glanced up, surprised. What? Was this woman interesting now - could actually make connections? He glanced over her again and doubted it. 

"You were forced together by something after that, he spent more time with you, got over how obnoxious you are?" 

Sherlock blinked and knew he looked like he'd been hit by a skillet. He schooled his expressions back in order and peered at her. 

"How do you think?" he asked seriously. 

"It's obvious isn't it? He's changed his mind. He wasn't your friend last time you said it, but he is now." 

_Oh._ Sherlock felt that wonderful _click_ of a new option opening up. And _God,_ Mycroft would have a field day laughing if he knew he'd been stumped by something so simple, due to pathetic self-induced blindness onset by his not even considering the option that given enough time he could make friends. So that was the secret then, of how acquaintances did it, all it needed was _time?_ And John was offended because somehow he was supposed to have known that enough time had passed; they were friends now, not colleagues, and he's broken some rule denying it. 

The woman glanced out the door John had left through. So, she'd seen the exchange. 

"Or at least he was," she added, smiling at him sadly and placing his tea down on the table beside him, apparently deciding her help was sufficient. Hardly. He had to figure out how to apologize. _Oh,_ _hell._

~~/~~ 

They weren't ever going to get closer than this. Sherlock was his best friend. The best man he'd ever met and – oddly enough – the most human. The most _honest._ Sherlock could fake courtesy; he knew that people didn't just take each other's things or wake each other up with gunshots or put eyeballs in the microwave without cleaning it up after. He just didn't know whythey _didn't_ and so refraining to do so was only an elaborate lie, carefully hiding the reality of who he was behind who he was supposed to be. And Sherlock was such a bloody phenomenal liar he could pull it off. He just didn't. He proved at every public occasion that he'd rather be himself than be liked and John found that just amazing enough to deal with the results of it. 

The gunshots, the microwave eyes, the nasty angry hisses that they were not, in fact, friends. They were. John knew it. Knew Sherlock would figure that out and come to make it better – it'd just take him thirty times as long as it'd take anyone else. 

John blew out a heavy breath, glancing around the little graveyard where he'd cloistered himself, waiting for Sherlock to come and acknowledge their friendship, hopefully looking at least a bit remorseful. There was a possibility of that, at least. 

It'd be enough. He'd figured that out. He'd stopped trying to find a woman who'd be okay with the fact that he'd rather eat take-away on paper plates staring at a bucket of fingernails with his flatmate than spend time with her. He'd cross all of bloody London to send a bloody text, because it meant Sherlock wanted him there and they just had so much damn fun together. John never wanted to give it up, _wouldn't_ give it up. Even if it meant trailing three meters behind the man, never able to keep up, spending twenty quid on a taxi to be slightly more helpful than a human skull on a mantle. 

But they weren't going to get any closer. Sherlock didn't talk about his personal life. He didn't talk about his childhood, his sexuality, his past relationships - any of the normal things that should have come up after a year and a half of sharing a flat. Hell, even vaguely personal things, his past pets – if he'd ever had any. John didn't know. He didn't really think he'd ever know. And yet, for the little scraps of himself Sherlock did grant him and for the present life they lived that he loved so much, he was going to have no girlfriend, no great search for a future. 

Until Sherlock got bored with him. In the meantime, he'd pine until he got over it and enjoy what he had. A life sitting across the kitchen table, doing his best to hide his sexuality, until inevitably the prat deduced it from his toothpaste brand or some nonsense. Then some "I'm married to my work' awkwardness as if John hadn't already adjusted to that years before. But he'd keep it secret as best he could, because after Sherlock got bored he was going back into the army and despite all the propaganda being bisexual was not helpful to one's career in a male-dominated hierarchy, thank you. His leg was healed now, his psychosomatic issues gone, and he knew he'd be grateful even as he finally bled out back under the Afghan sun that Sherlock had given that back to him. 

John glanced over at the sound of Sherlock walking up to him. Damn, the man was handsome but he still managed to look like a drowned rat when put in an awkward social situation. 

_Well, good,_ he thought, anger flaring up. The man had been an arse. 

But at least now they could acknowledge their friendship, the last step in getting as close as they ever would. He couldn't think of anything that would change it, depressing though it was. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock barely managed to say that he hadn't friends, just the one – a pathetic attempt to twist language around - To say Set A was not contained in Set B excluded every element of it, not just the set in its entirety and English worked on the same principle – if he didn't have friends then he by definition didn't have a single friend either and it grated to use words so idiotically but all the same, John _listened_ to him when he spoke afterward, and he hadn't needed to apologize to fix it so it had certainly been the better of two evils. And he'd barely finished processing that John was acting less angry again before it was coming to him. H.O.U.N.D – an acronym, or at least possibly one – a new option had opened up that merited exploring. 

God, John was stimulating. And his _friend._ That was certainly an unfamiliar idea, Sherlock thought as he wandered back toward the town. It was probably a bad thing. It likely meant John would get hurt, when he got bored with him, found something better to help him in his work. It might have been kinder to leave it as it'd been, only a few moments before he apologized. Let John think they had no further connection, until the man left. And there, that horrible sickening feeling on his transport. _That_ at least he couldn't wait to have gone. Sherlock glanced into the pub as they passed it, looking for the strange gay couple there only to see Lestrade hanging out inside like he belonged. Multiple possibilities, none of them good. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, striding toward the man. 

~~/~~ 

Franklin was bloody _ruining_ his reveal, running off into the woods instead of standing and admitting his crimes, the genius of driving a man to insanity, and better; his method of doing so. Still, Sherlock loved the chase, loved when they took off and John and he tried to beat each other to taking them down because in the end, they pretty much always caught them. They got out of the woods and Sherlock grinned, able to open his stride. This one, at least, he'd get to before John. 

"Sherlock!" John shouted. He didn't get jealous about the chases, wasn't likely that he was trying to cheat and make him hesitate. A warning or a better opportunity then. Sherlock let his legs slow, looked around, tried to see the danger. 

Franklin was running into the mine field. Sherlock threw himself backwards, away, his mind desperately searching for data. What proportion of labeled minefields were actually charged? What was the likelihood of an explosion given one approximately 33 x 110 meter field and one man running through it? What was the area of effect of a single landmine? 

He heard a quiet plastic-y _click,_ out in front of him and suspected that unless Franklin was smart enough to not step off, he'd have the data for his last question. 

_Damn._

~~/~~ 

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	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

Sherlock woke up to a screaming ringing in his ears. It pounded at him, the pain setting him to rolling over, reaching to pull away whatever was gripping at his head. Fabric, slightly rough, slightly wet beneath the pinna, pressure almost equally applied around his outer neck, over his ear, to the opposite side of his head. Copied almost equally on the other side. Bandages, a weird pair of earmuffs, a misused headscarf, hat or veil – likely to use as a makeshift bandage or that weird pair of earmuffs. Bandage was almost a given, then. 

He was on his back. His hands caught on something before he got them more than six inches toward his head – a different kind of fabric, softer, slightly fuzzy but worn with use, only slightly elastic as they caught against something on either side of him. Hospital bed cuffs, he was sure of that. He'd felt them before. The smell of alcohol-based cleaning products, cheap detergent, stale air and flowers was only redundant, he already knew for sure. He was in the hospital again. 

With ear damage, apparently, as a likely corollary. The ringing was internal then, nothing to be done about it. Sherlock let his arms drop. The fact that it was sudden-onset narrowed the options considerably; Autoimmune inner ear disease; noise-induced hearing loss; Physical head injury. Three options then, and autoimmune diseases were relatively rare. 

He remembered running in the forest out into the field, John's warning shout, the minefield, the sound of plastic clicking _in_ but not it releasing, nothing after that at all. So, he was either experiencing amnesia or had been rendered unconscious after that point and he'd woken up in a hospital wrapped in head bandages. That made the hearing loss almost undoubtedly noise or injury induced, though it was impossible to speculate on which without further data. And who brought him flowers? 

It was hardly John – the man would be rushing to the hospital, too preoccupied to concern himself with trivialities like the infernal smell of a hospital room, at least if any past evidence was valid in his specified case. He saw no reason it wouldn't be, now that it'd been confirmed that he counted as a friend. Mrs. Hudson was more likely but much the same. Lestrade was possible – he'd only visit to smooth his misplaced guilt in only engaging with him when he needed help in a case, but he'd be calm enough to think of the gesture. Molly was a possibility, she was socially inept enough to always be unpredictable. Mycroft was likely – he'd want to show off his immense 'concern' as visually as possible. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and let pain spike into his head, beside his temple. Dehydrated, slightly concussed, exhausted, underfed, or a result of the obnoxious ringing. A combination of all of them, Sherlock thought. He ignored it. John was asleep in a chair beside him, his arms crossed and pillowed under his head on the bedspread by his arm. He wore the same outfit Sherlock remembered, creased, wrinkled and sweat-stained with what looked like a day and a half's use – it could have been longer and he'd changed out of and back into that outfit only to wear it for more time, but that was hardly a common practice. So, unconscious since that time in the forest, only a few hours ago, and John hadn't changed out of his stained clothes. Three possibilities -they'd lost all their other clothing, John hadn't gone home, or he hadn't bothered changing. The last wasn't likely – John hated to wear the same outfit for more than a day. 

It wasn't likely that their flat had burned down – the most likely cause of the loss of their clothes – John didn't smell like smoke and _that_ at least, he'd have left the hospital to go see. Would he? Sherlock doubted himself and cursed emotions again. Either way, it was unlikely the place burned down on the same day he was hospitalized. No, more likely was they were still in the surrounding area to Baskerville, no more than a few hours away from that wonderful crime scene and John had not changed because he hadn't left the hospital. 

Sherlock glanced down at himself. He was in a clean hospital gown. No further information. Mycroft was sitting by the window, holding his umbrella out in front of him in his favorite dramatic gesture. No doubt he'd had pictures taken of this, in case he ever needed them for a political campaign as the doting brother. 

"Molly, you, or Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, doing his best to modulate his tone without the help of his hearing. It felt bizarre, feeling his throat and skull vibrate with sound and hear nothing but the chronic ringing. He could hear himself in his own skull – his auditory nerve was intact. That, at least, was helpful and likely a good sign for future recovery but he'd have to confirm with John. 

Mycroft pulled a whiteboard up from next to his chair and started writing, looking annoyed at the pace of it. He held it up expectantly. 

**Which? The flowers or the blame?**

Sherlock grimaced in annoyance. How could it have been Molly's fault that he'd been close enough to an explosion in Baskerville to cause hearing loss? Mycroft smirked slightly, acknowledging the point and wrote instead: 

**I was concerned**

He didn't bother to consider that one. He'd run 27 different scenarios where Mycroft's concern was a possible motivator and he'd only ever ended up concluding that his brother had been driven by a rational purpose. The subject was fairly well researched, he figured, and certainly tedious. John stirred, possibly awake. Hopefully; Sherlock had questions. 

"So, an explosion, probably a landmine, within the last six hours, enough to cause skull or acoustic trauma," Sherlock confirmed. Mycroft smiled tightly, looking vaguely like he was trying to swallow something bitter. Unlikely, given his tastes and no evidence of chewing. So, acknowledging Sherlock was right again. 

John sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes before he seemed to come to. He pulled his hand away from his face and stared in shock. The man mouthed something. Sherlock blinked, trying to think of the possibilities. What would make that motion? 

Bore/Core/Door/Fore/Gore/Her/Lore/More/Pore/Roar/S oar/Tore/Wore/Whore/Your/ You're; all possibilities for what looked like the first word. Then: awake/ a fake/ a rake. Unless he'd gotten the word break wrong – her mistake? Whore relate? - no, it'd definitely ended more open-mouthed than 'relate'. The first had to be 'her' or 'your', to have any proper syntax at all – which was likely, given how John did, in fact, speak English correctly the vast majority of the time. Had to be 'your' or 'you're', then. You're awake/a fake/ a rake, or 'you're her mistake' then. 'You're a rake' made no sense. Unlikely. So either 'you're awake', 'you're a fake' or 'you're her mistake'. Which given that he'd just woken up in a hospital.. he'd like to believe John hadn't said something so benign, but he didn't. 

"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock joked. John's eyes widened, his face brightening. Mycroft flicked his eyes at the ceiling, his mouth pursed to 'tut' in that way he did when someone was about to say something stupid. Which, granted, was perfectly possible but Sherlock was still glad to be deaf at the moment if it let him miss out on Mycroft's mannerisms. 

John spoke and Sherlock wanted to growl at yet again needing to go through the damn process. 

Boo/Coo/Do/Goo/Jew/Knew/Loo/Moo/New/Poo/Rue/Sue/Tw o/Too/To/View/Woo/Who/You/Yew/Zoo. An/And/Ban/Can/Can/Dan/Fan/Hand/LAN/Land/Man/Pan/R an/Rant/Sand/Tan/Tan/Van/. Beer/Deer/Dear/Ear/Fear/Gear/Hear/Here/Jeer/Leer/N ear/Neil/Peer/Queer/Rear/Seer/Sear/Tear/Veer/Wheel . Bee/Be/Ee/Fee/Glee/He/Jee/Lee/Me/Pea/Pee/Sea/See/T ea/Tee/ We. 

No questioning verbs in the first option except 'who'. If who, than a verb next. If not, than the first would need to be a subject or an adjective for one. So: Who can fear me? Who can fear Lee? Who can fear Tea? Who can hear me? Who can hear Lee? Who can hear tea? Who can wheel me? Who can wheel Lee? Who can wheel tea? Who can sear me? Who can sear Lee? Who can sear tea? Who can fear me? Who can fear Lee? Who can fear tea? You can hear me? You can hear Lee? You can hear tea? You can wheel me? You can wheel Lee? You can wheel tea? You can sear me? You can sear Lee? You can sear tea? You can fear me? You can fear Lee? You can fear tea? Unless he'd gotten the word separations wrong, still perfectly possible. He had to ignore that possibility; it opened too many options. 

They didn't know anyone named Lee. There was no tea visibly nearby. He wasn't in a wheelchair to use 'wheel' as a verb. And John wasn't likely feeling violent enough to be talking about searing anyone. Which left 'who can hear me' and 'you can hear me'. Tedious. Sherlock sighed heavily, heard the strange hiss in his ear canals beneath the ringing. Dull. 

John's face fell slowly, apparently figuring it out. The man glanced over his face quickly, saying something Sherlock mostly missed. There were too many options, and none of them sensible. Options flew through his brain, senseless possibilities, - pubeye heart few cuplet? Hut fie mart dopeset? Bowtie cart percoset? - but it was useless, he'd only caught part of the sentence and he hadn't enough data. Obviously he was going to need to get better at lipreading or he'd be bored out of his skull in approximately ten minutes – maybe less depending on who held Mycroft's whiteboard. 

"I have no idea what you just said," Sherlock replied, pretending not to notice that Mycroft was halfway through a sentence. From Mycroft's pinched expression, he knew. John reached for a pad of paper left beside his hand on the bed – the nurses, then. 

**Are you okay?**

That didn't match with what John had seemed to say at all. He'd changed it, then. Sherlock growled to himself, frustrated. He didn't want to get everything _filtered_ first. 

"I am fine, other than the obvious. Do you know if the hearing loss is permanent?" Sherlock replied, fussing with the bedcuffs to see if they were done correctly. They were. Damn. 

**It's not certain. A Deaf Lifestyle Coach is going to come speak to you.**

Sherlock nodded. Well, that sounded like a colossal waste of time. 

"When can I leave? I'm bored," he complained and Mycroft looked up, presumably making that 'tut' sound again. 

**Why aren't you upset?** John wrote, looking concerned. 

Ah. 'You upset', not percoset. That made far more sense. 

"Wouldn't that be premature? I do not know how this will affect me. At the moment it means I am not distracted by the normal hospital din and I cannot hear Mycroft tutting about, which is certainly an improvement," Sherlock replied. John gaped at him, glancing over his face to find some sort of clue. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to have found it, as he looked to Mycroft in turn. 

"Sign me into your care. I want to go home," Sherlock told him, grateful again for his forethought in moving in with a licensed physician. 

~~/~~ 

John didn't think he'd ever seen his flatmate look so bloody inhuman. He'd seen the man skip happily around a body, praying to the sky in thanks for the puzzle, seen him insulting Molly without a second thought, seen a man's body tossed out a window onto Mrs. Hudson cans three times in a row, but somehow that all looked positively normal to seeing Sherlock in a hospital bed, apparently utterly unaffected by the loss of one of his major senses. He sat grumbling about the bedcuffs John had insisted on, apparently blaming Mycroft for it all, until the lifestyle coach arrived. 

She was a portly, kind-looking woman with an easy smile and a birthmark on her cheek. She carried a whiteboard and a pile of pre-made signs. John rubbed at his eyes. This was not going to go well. She shook his hand and Mycroft's before turning with her signs to Sherlock. 

"Hello, my name is Shandra Hallock. I am here to -" she started, holding up her first sign. John read it quickly. 

**Hello, my name is Shandra Hallock. I am here to talk to you about living with a hearing disability in the case that it is permanent.**

"I know who you are," Sherlock interrupted her. "No pets, no husband, single for what? 5 years? Never married, probably because you are overweight and overly accustomed to controlling your own lifestyle – not to mention the fact that you clearly have channeled your loneliness into what appears to be a charity vocation but is really a marketing scheme for the local sign language education businesses." Sherlock glanced down at the pile of papers she was carrying, apparently not done. Of course not. "City Lit and School of Sign Language, is it? Both for-profit businesses, I see. Not surprising, there isn't enough money in deaf-centric charities to pay for a marketing scheme and they hardly need to outsource to find more poverty-stricken students that don't pay for their own coursework. You are going to talk to me about options, how reading lips is effective but only at close distances and takes an inefficient level of concentration to achieve. Sign language is faster and better at distance and in groups. Oh, and you're going to give me some bullocks about deaf culture and how sign language will be an important part of joining into it. Well, don't bother, I'm already sold on learning to sign and I have no interest in the so-called 'culture' you so desperately want to be part of but haven't the correct disability to achieve. It's a shame the auditory nerve doesn't require any degree of intelligence or you'd be granted your wish and I'd never have had to waste my time reading your bloody sign. Why don't you do something actually useful and get. me. my. release. form," Sherlock snarled, before leaning back and closing his eyes, apparently deciding he was, at last done. 

The woman stood, blinking at him, looking unsure of where to put her sign. 

"Nice to meet you," John added, smiling slightly, attempting to look friendly. She raised her eyebrows at him, apparently not impressed. 

_Okay, so it did sound like a dismissal,_ he accepted belatedly. 

"Let me leave you with the brochures. There are some very nice programs," she said, and gently laid a file on the table beside Sherlock's bed. 

"Yeah," John agreed, nodding. 

_Awkward, Sherlock. Thanks._

"He'll probably be easy to startle for awhile," she told him softly, like she was trying to be easy on his feelings too. John ran a hand down his face. Shit. Sherlock had almost died. 

"Not Sherlock, he'll be too busy reading shadows or … something," he replied, shaking his head as Sherlock opened his eyes, glaring at the woman now. 

She smiled at him slightly, nodded to Mycroft, and left. Sherlock glared at the door after she was gone, only to flop his head back onto the bed. Apparently, thank god, the man was alright. A few lacerations on his arms from the debris and bruises from the fall; otherwise Sherlock had walked away scot-free. And shockingly, almost creepily, unaffected. 

John was called away from Sherlock's bed by a pretty nurse with three earring holes and a tattoo on her hand – not his type – and asked to sign the release form Sherlock had demanded. 

_Why me?_ He wondered, guessing this was yet another gay-couple misunderstanding, but not really bothering to care if it meant Sherlock would be released from the place. Every time Sherlock spoke his voice was becoming higher pitched, more of a hiss, signs that the man was rapidly breaking down to being an absolute horror to live with. 

"How's he holding up?" the nurse asked kindly, handing him the clipboard. 

"Remarkably well," John replied honestly, wincing slightly at the _crash_ that sounded behind him. The nurse's eyebrows rose slightly at the sound. 

"Well, I'm sure it's difficult news to bear," she said kindly, glancing around his shoulder at Sherlock's room. 

"You'd think so," John replied, unsure what to say. The truth was Sherlock was acting like there was nothing more to deal with in the situation than the fact that he was strapped to a hospital cot, which if it were anyone else John would attribute to denial but with Sherlock? For all he knew, the man was perfectly unaffected by it all, beyond inconvenience. John hated reminders like these, that taught him how little he really understood the man. 

"John! I'm bored, how long could it possibly take to sign two sheets of paper?" Sherlock shouted from behind him. The nurse's eyebrows rose more at Sherlock's shout but she didn't look particularly surprised. 

"An orderly should be in to release his cuffs in a moment," she said calmly. John sighed, flipping the transfer form over to see its second page releasing the man into his care. Right. How did Sherlock know ..? John shook his head, signing the form and sliding it across the blockade around the nurses' station. The nurse slid a ziplock holding Sherlock's phone, keys, wallet – complete with nicotine patches hanging too far out the top – and toolkit back at him, followed by his folded-up coat. John smiled and took the pile. He turned toward Sherlock's room to see the man striding out of it, apparently seeing no reason to delay to adjust to the trauma of it all. 

"My phone," Sherlock ordered as he passed him, heading toward the stairs. John caught up to him and handed him the baggie. He passed Sherlock his coat without prompting as they got to the hospital exit and tried to process the fact that, other than the bandages wrapped over Sherlock's hair, it felt like any other day. Sherlock stalked out of the hospital, reading his texts on his phone, coat swirling around in the wind as he crashed into someone on the sidewalk and by all appearances didn't notice at all. The woman blinked at them for a moment, looking incensed before her eyes caught on the bandages. Her eyes softened and she walked around them both to go on her way. Sherlock, meanwhile, was grinning like a lunatic. Appropriate, considering how that night had gone. 

"We've got a case. Scotland Yard. Shall we?" Sherlock said, already stepping into the street and raising an arm for a cab. 

~~/~~ 

"I need to improve reading lips," Sherlock announced, interrupting the cabbie halfway through a story about his daughter. 

"Sorry, he's deaf," John said rapidly, unsure he should be apologizing for the injured man. It felt somewhat dishonest, when Sherlock surely would have interrupted the man regardless. 

"Look at me," Sherlock demanded and John obeyed. They were too close in the cab to be two grown men staring at each other. He glanced away rapidly, at his clasped hands, only to have Sherlock grab his chin and force him to look back at him. 

"No face only me and make all of the alphabetical sounds, in order, starting from 'ay'," he ordered, sitting back and twisting in the cab to face him fully. 

_Oh, okay, that actually makes some sense,_ John figured, obeying as well as he could, though he couldn't help glancing at the cabbie on occasion in his embarrassment. He sounded like he'd suddenly gone completely mad and the cabbie's story hung in the air, awkwardly unfinished. 

"Say 'Sally sells sea shells by the sea shore," Sherlock ordered seriously and John wondered how on _earth_ Britain had produced a grown man who could say that without blushing. 

"A quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," Sherlock ordered next, "that does all sounds but the fricatives and a hard 'ay' and 'ee'." 

"A quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," John obeyed, blinking rapidly. 

"She, saves, sells, fee, faves, fells. Zee, zoo." 

John obeyed again and Sherlock nodded, releasing John's chin and clasping his hands under his jaw, his eyes fixed on John's face. It still felt remarkably good, albeit unnerving, to have that genius so entirely captivated by him, if only for his own purposes. 

"I cannot determine the difference between 'f' and 'v' or 's' and 'z' from afar. It's a matter of vibrating vocal cords," Sherlock complained, as if this were any other problem in a case that needed to be rectified, if convenient. John nodded. 

"Right. Of course, yes. I'll just let you know, shall I?" he said, trying as ever to keep up. 

"Likely there won't often be a need," Sherlock replied, leaning forward again as he refocused on John's lips. 

_A little awkward,_ John acknowledged, feeling himself start to blush and brutally trying to suppress it. 

"Ab, bab, cab, dab, eab, etc," Sherlock ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand. John sighed, and returned to the exercise. Anything to keep from actually thinking of Sherlock as _deaf_ now, Jesus. 

"Aock, bock, cock, dock, fock gock, etc," Sherlock ordered. 

_Great._ There was no stopping his blush now. Sherlock leaned further forward, looking interested as John tried to obey with a straight face. 

_I know, I know, I'm an idiot._

"Aenis, beenis, ceenis, deenis, feenis, etc," Sherlock ordered, his eyes glowing mischievously and John threw his head back, laughing at his utterly ridiculous friend. Sherlock's laughter joined him, but a little...off, in its tone, not the same and he wanted Sherlock ears to heal already. 

"We're idiots," John said, straight into Sherlock's face and the man smirked slightly. 

"True," he said, grabbing the door handle. The cab started to slow down at the kerb. Sherlock handed the cabbie money before the man told them their bill. He was right, apparently, for the cabbie said nothing as Sherlock pulled himself out of the cab. John followed, hissing at the cold and glancing around to confirm that the cab had taken them to Scotland Yard before he closed the door behind himself. Sherlock was already halfway up the steps to the station, apparently having utterly moved on from their impromptu lesson in lip reading. 

~~/~~ 

"Out of the hospital already?" Greg asked, looking shocked as they walked into his office. Donovan and Anderson were already inside, arguing about something and didn't bother to stop for them. Sherlock blinked, looking confused, and glanced at John before his face brightened in recognition. 

"Oh, right, you don't know. I seem to have lost my hearing. What's the case?" Sherlock demanded, striding up to stand too close to Greg's desk. 

"Lost your - ? And you came here?" Donovan asked, turning toward them suddenly, but she was standing off to Sherlock's right and slightly behind him, and John knew there was no way Sherlock had caught the rhetorical question. 

_Probably just as well._

"Well?" Sherlock demanded, holding out a hand, presumably for whatever evidence Lestrade handed him. 

"How are you not upset?" Greg asked, pulling a file off his desk and out of the man's reach. "Is it permanent?" he asked, glancing between him and John. Sherlock peered at the man's lips, looking frustrated before he stood up fully again, apparently having narrowed it down. 

"Sounds are rarely relevant for my work. I deal in the past. If the ringing would stop I suspect this particular affliction could even be considered convenient, but of course it is too soon to judge," Sherlock rattled off, even as he turned to face John. "Why is that question so important to everyone?" he asked, but he turned away immediately when Lestrade moved to hand him the file. Sherlock buried himself in studying it, effectively dead to the world. 

_Okay..._

"So, just like that, total loss of hearing?" Anderson scoffed out, sounding vaguely like he didn't believe the story, "and then he gets out of the hospital and comes here?" 

"I told you, he's a freak," Donovan replied, her mouth pursing. 

"He's just-" John started but Sherlock was talking again. 

"You said you had a case. This is just a suicide faked as a murder, and a very similar, utterly unrelated homicide. Where's the puzzle?" Sherlock demanded, sounding utterly annoyed as he stared into Lestrade's face. 

"Suicide?" Lestrade asked, reaching for the file and Sherlock handed it back. 

"Yes. Look at the contents of his wallet. He was divorced, recently so, most likely had just gotten word that he'd lost custody," Sherlock replied, turning around to walk past John out of the office. Lestrade was staring at the photos and looked up at the man's words. 

"Oi!" he called after Sherlock, sounding angry. 

"Uh...deaf," John reminded him, gesturing at the doorway. 

"I'll confirm the custody proceedings," Donovan replied, sounding resigned as she headed out after him. 

"Yeah," Lestrade replied, his head falling back on his shoulders. John nodded awkwardly and turned to follow his flatmate. He caught up to the man outside as a taxi pulled up to the kerb. Sherlock stepped back to let John in first, by all appearances knowing exactly where he was. 

~~/~~ 

John practically collapsed against the brick outer wall of 221B while Sherlock unlocked it, trying not to think of the last time he'd really slept, after the night with the Hound and the laboratory and the landmine. _Hell_ , he was tired. Sherlock pushed the door open and strode inside, leaving John to close and lock it behind them. He caught up to Sherlock at the top of the stairs. Sherlock stripped off his coat, threw it over the hook on the wall and started toward the waiting experiments in the kitchen as he did almost every time they returned to the flat. As if there hadn't been three days and a near-death experience between now and the last time he'd looked at the mold growing on the fingers in the fridge. He heard the sucking sound of the fridge getting opened and winced, not wanting to know what it looked like inside. 

"Christ," John cursed, catching a wiff of the smell that wafted out, turning back around to ask Mrs. Hudson for the hoover. He'd at least clean what he _could_ of the place. 

~~/~` 

Sherlock watched as John pulled the infernal machine into their apartment, smiling to himself. He had nothing but the ringing and the motion of the hoover to distract him. The ringing, at least, was constant and almost certainly temporary. Part of him hoped the hearing loss was not, but he'd yet to do a comprehensive study on how often it slowed him down and to what degree vs. how much faster he thought without the auditory distractions which were so rarely useful. He turned back to his microscope and noted the additional bacteria growth. 

~~/~~ 

God, but it was a bit scary. John cleaned up the flat carefully and couldn't help glancing constantly at his flatmate, sitting at his microscope, calm as ever with bandages covering half of his head. Bandages which really needed to be changed, he realized, noting the time as he put away the cleaning chemicals. 

He approached Sherlock at the kitchen table and somehow _knew_ that he would startle the man. Well, shite. He walked back a bit and stamped the floor heavily as he approached. Sherlock glanced up, looking confused for a moment before his face cleared. 

"Thank you," he said. John nodded and gestured to Sherlock's bandages. 

"We need to change those," he said and Sherlock paused, eyes clouded again before he shook his head, exhaling rapidly. John tried again and Sherlock grimaced, pointing to the pad. 

"Write it down," he ordered and John obeyed, showing him the note and wondering why lipreading seemed so difficult for the brilliant man. 

**We need to change those.**

"Ah," Sherlock said, pursing his lips. "Why 'we'? I can -" Sherlock started, reaching for his own bandages. Oh god forbid the man try to replace them himself. John caught his hand quickly. 

"No, seriously, let me do it," he ordered. 

"Later," Sherlock replied, turning back to the microscope. John growled and grabbed the damn pad back. 

**No. Sherlock – now. Infection could permanently deafen you** . John wrote and shoved the note into Sherlock's workspace. Sherlock finished examining something, to all appearances ignoring him and scratched something down in his own notes. John pushed the pad again until it ran into Sherlock's arm. The man finished his notes and skimmed his eyes over the pad before going back to the microscope. 

John scoffed out his annoyance, though no one was listening and went to get his kit. He checked his supplies of disinfectant, bandages, swabs and medical tape and headed to the kitchen, not willing to take any of it out until as much of the table as possible was disinfected of whatever the hell Sherlock had recently put on it. Apparently he was doing this from the kitchen. Though, he supposed as he cleaned the table, it did at least give him some chance of his absolutely mad flatmate actually staying still. 

"Jesus," John cursed as he peeled away the last blood and pus crusted layer, revealing the lacerated, bruised face beneath. He pulled his kit closer to himself and reached for the disinfectant. Sherlock switched to looking something up on his phone, apparently unperturbed by what was certainly a painful procedure. Still, it meant he didn't move while John dealt with the fluid still dripping from Sherlock's ears. 

"We need to learn BSL," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone, as John started on rewrapping his skull. 

**?** John scrawled quickly, before quickly grabbing the untaped bandage on Sherlock's head. If it loosened he'd have to start all over and there was no way he was dealing with the man's curly hair again. Sherlock's hair was deceptively silky beneath his hands, that beautiful look women loved and physicians hated because it always frigging slipped. 

"British Sign Language. It's got a variety of course materials – which by rights should be irrelevant but may come to be helpful in your case," Sherlock replied, oblivious to the ongoing battle with his hair. 

"You want me to learn sign language," John said flatly before growling and reaching for the pad. A bandage slipped slightly and he almost smacked Sherlock across the head grabbing for it. He replaced the fabric gently and gratefully started to tape it up. It was a 'cling' bandage but he knew better than to bloody trust them, especially when he knew for a fact he never wanted to look at Sherlock's gorgeous hair again, much less deal with it. 

"Why sign language? This works," John scratched out before going to the sink to wash his hands. 

"This is tedious, John, and only works in close quarters. And lip reading is _hideous,_ " Sherlock snarled from behind him. John turned back and saw the man actually watching him, apparently waiting for an answer. 

"How's that?" he asked, starting to pack away his med kit. 

"Rouse hat, cows sat, cow's fat, how's that? - likely, but there's no way to _really_ know, too many options," Sherlock spat, his whole face contorting in disgust and frustration. 

_Maybe this does bother him after all,_ John wondered. He really couldn't tell, Sherlock complained about a lot that got in the way of his work. 

"Jesus, Sherlock, you don't have to think of all the options. Just watch my mouth and make a guess. Harry and I used to do that all the time," John replied, mouthing the words slowly. Sherlock growled at him and went back to his work, apparently deciding it wasn't worth the effort. John wrote it down. 

"How can you discard an option before you've even acknowledged it?" Sherlock asked, blinking at the scrawled note. John shrugged slightly and clicked his med kit closed. 

**I don't know, you just do. You use context, I suppose** , John wrote. Sherlock only looked more confused. 

**You don't have to think of every possible option. I guess we'd just predict what we expected the other to say and see if it fits** -" John wrote. 

"I never predict what people are going to say," Sherlock replied. John felt his eyebrows furrow. 

_What?_

**You are constantly,** _**constantly,**_ **telling people how boring they are** , he protested. Sherlock smiled slightly. 

"They are boring, John. There are just an almost infinite number of boring, meaningless responses a person can give. I get more proof of that daily," he said, turning back to his microscope only to apparently remember that he couldn't get John's response that way. He leaned away from it again and refocused on John, looking frustrated. 

**Even with context, you think of every single damn word my lips could be forming?** John confirmed, flummoxed. 

"I can't analyze possible conclusions I haven't gathered, " Sherlock repeated slowly, like he was talking to an imbecile. John tried to fathom thinking of every damn combination his last sentence could be mangled into and shook his head. 

**Okay, fine, we'll learn sign language. But this damn hearing thing better last long enough to make it bloody well worth it** ," John scrawled before throwing up his hands in defeat and turning to put the kettle on. He saw Sherlock smirk before he turned away and ran his words over again in his mind. 

_Yup. I'm a bastard. Just requested my flatmate remain deafened to validate my time,_ John thought, sighing to himself as he started the stove. 

~~/~~ 

BSL was, apparently, a bitch to learn. John spent his every free moment at the clinic – which was a lot of time, given a particularly slow Thursday – attending the damn internet programs Sherlock had so mockingly pointed out to him. . 

He had barely stepped into the flat before Sherlock was symboling to him wildly, his arms waving around like a madman. 

"Uh-" John started before sighing and lowering his briefcase to the ground. Sherlock waited for him, glowering. John took the time to take off his coat and move to the kitchen to get the kettle started. Sherlock walked up to him, shoving himself in John's space and tried again, slower now. Meaningless. John slowly signed out the phrase he'd learned that day. 

"I – Learn – BSL," he said. Sherlock groaned loudly and signed back something unintelligible. John shot him a rueful smile. 

_Yup. That's it._ He'd spent all damn day at work and had gotten through just under two BSL online lessons, barely more than twenty words. 

"-How -feel -you? I -feel -happy. I -feel -sad. -Please. -Thank you. -Blue, -Green, -Yellow, -Red, -Pink, -White, -Black, -Gold, -Silver, -Cat, -dog, -fish, -bear," John signed and Sherlock groaned again, stalking away. John heard a heavy thump and guessed Sherlock had thrown himself onto the couch to sulk. He brought him out his tea and the man twisted on the couch to face him as he put it on the coffee table. 

"Of all the inane statements to learn, John, _really_ ," he growled, "What is the _likelihood_ you were going to come home and need the phrase 'Please, how is the pink fish feeling?" Sherlock turned his back to roar suddenly at the ceiling. "God, I'm _bored!_ " 

_Well, I'm sure someone else will be murdered for you to puzzle over soon,_ John thought, but it wasn't on and he walked away to get his laptop. He'd barely turned it on before he realized that he couldn't possibly _practice_ in front of the man, and he grabbed the computer and his tea and started for his room, ignoring how Sherlock stared after him, looking curious. 

The next day passed disturbingly similarly. John got up and went to work without seeing Sherlock at all, studied BSL, and got a spree of nonsense symbols as soon as he walked in the door. 

"I -like -learn BSL. -Father. -Mother. -Boy. -Girl. -Son. -Daughter. -Grandmother. -Grandfather. -Marriage. -Aunt. -Uncle. -Baby. -Single. -Divorced. -Home. -Work. -Store. -Church. -Come. -Go," John replied, nodding firmly at Sherlock's disgusted snarl. "Yup, I really am that stupid," he said aloud, but Sherlock had already turned away to hide himself in the couch. John went and grabbed the take-away menu and poked the man in the back to get his attention. 

"I don't want dinner or tea, if it's anything other than a case go away," Sherlock grumbled. John nodded and grabbed his phone, laptop and tea, piling them on top of each other to head up the stairs to get back to signing. 

John had barely started in on his BSL clip when Sherlock's head burst through his bedroom door. John jerked, his knee slamming into the desk and sending his laptop skidding toward the back wall. He caught it carefully and turned toward Sherlock, who was looking rather disappointed. 

"Ah," the man said and moved as if to withdraw. 

"What the devil?" John cursed and threw a pen at the closing doorway to get Sherlock's attention. From the light smacking sound, it'd landed, and Sherlock pulled back into sight. John just gestured 'what?', an open, easy gesture that fit pretty close to his actual question. 

"I couldn't determine if you were embarrassed to learn in front of me or if you simply fancied a wank," Sherlock replied easily. 

"And if I wa-" John stared and cursed, trying to remember the damn signs. "-If -I -want -past?" he asked. Sherlock blinked, apparently not having considered that. "-And," John started, struggling to remember the word before he just grabbed his spilled teacup and pointed to it. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed again. 

"What's wrong with the tea?" he asked. John wrote it down on the pad beside him quickly and flashed it at the man. 

**I wouldn't bring tea!**

"Am I supposed to know these things?" Sherlock asked, blinking. John gestured 'no' rapidly. 

_Uh... really really not._

And of course Sherlock looked incensed like he'd just asked for something utterly ridiculous. 

**Everyone knows that!** John added, glaring at the man. 

"Why does everyone know that?" Sherlock asked, glancing over John's frame like he'd miscalculated something about him. 

_Oh...hell._

**Not about me, you idiot. As a norm. You don't bring tea,** John wrote instead. Sherlock glared at him again. 

"I can hardly be blamed for not knowing that," he protested. 

_Well. That answers that question._

**Just don't barge into my room, Sherlock,** he wrote, resigned, and Sherlock started back down the stairs, still looking hateful. John turned off his clip, moving to learn what Sherlock would no doubt consider 'actually useful' words – all the different terms for 'idiot' he could find. 

~~/~~ 

John woke up that night to a horrible, ear splitting screech. 

_Christ._ He'd sat up before he was fully awake, before he'd processed that it was not, in fact, a human scream. He waited a moment, one foot out of bed, as the sound kept screaming out from downstairs, until he'd blinked and it settled into being just the sound of an extremely ill-played violin. 

Sherlock was trying to play. John felt his heartrate slow and his mind slowly start to shift away from combat prep toward trying to decide whether or not he was going to go shout abuse at his flatmate for his latest late-night hobby. As pathetic as it made him, he didn't have the heart for it. John flopped back onto the bed and pulled his foot back under the warm comforters, wincing at the screaming downstairs and trying to decide how on _earth_ he was going to get back to sleep. 

~~/~~ 

He could apparently get away with more when deaf, Sherlock mused, not pausing in his playing. John had never given him more than five minutes of bad playing before he stomped down the stairs to roar at him, and it'd been a half an hour now. That marked another point in favor of re-causing the disability if his ears healed. How had he never thought of this _before?_ It was a deceptively simple solution. 

John dragged himself out of bed the next morning, when his body refused to get back to sleep despite his brain half begging for it. And thank _god_ it was Saturday. He wandered down the stairs for the shower, walking into the kitchen from the hall and grunting at where Sherlock was holding his violin up without playing a note, his entire body utterly still. He apparently had a wax sculpture for a flatmate today. John didn't ask. 

He came out of his shower, towel wrapped around his waist and headed for the upstairs, carefully not looking at where he'd seen Sherlock balanced in an odd half-squat on the easy chair, playing the violin. He hadn't liked having his scar just _there_ for Sherlock to make his bloody ...deductions from when he'd moved in but using two towels to cover himself like a bloody dress was hardly on so he'd gotten used to it. By now, he figured, trying to ignore the twinge of self-consciousness that still hit him as he walked almost naked past the man, Sherlock had deduced all he was going to. He'd gotten shot and pushed back onto something scalding and it looked like shite; hell, Sherlock probably knew the tank model number. 

John exhaled slowly and headed for the hall, until he registered that Sherlock was _playing_ the violin. John had no idea what the composition was but the point was it was _music_ and John stopped, one leg out the doorway and spun around slowly. He stomped on the floor to get Sherlock's attention and the man stopped playing to look up. 

"You figured it out," he said slowly when Sherlock's gaze focused on his lips. Sherlock blinked. 

"No idea what you just said," he replied, refocusing on the instrument in his hands like that clearly ended the conversation. Ghah. John stomped again and signed. 

"-You -learn -" and that was the end of his illustrious signing ability. John mocked playing the violin and pointed to the bloody thing. Sherlock smirked and went back to his playing. John had almost turned around entirely before he realized. Oh, damn it. He stomped again and Sherlock didn't look up, though John would swear he'd felt it. He walked up to the man and shook his shoulder, allowing the violin to screech angrily at the motion. Sherlock glared at him and John glowered back. 

"-You," damn it. Stupid symbols. He mocked playing again and added the sign for 'yesterday', touching his cheek and throwing his finger over his shoulder. "-You-" uh. Bullocks. John just mouthed 'test' and Sherlock grinned, apparently catching on. 

"Well, obviously the boundaries of our relationship have changed. It's only natural for me to reevaluate them," Sherlock replied, stepping back out of John's hold on his shoulder and replacing his violin. 

_Ghah._ John threw back his head and tried to rediscover his patience. Sherlock promptly started his violin _screeching_ and John pounded toward the stairs to go get dressed. 

"No, no, our boundaries remain _exactly_ where they were," John swore, banging up the stairs though intellectually he knew Sherlock could not hear him. He was going to spend the whole damn day looking up BSL words for Sherlock-specific words. Violins, guns, science equipment, body parts, and all the curse words he could get his hands on. 

~~/~~ 


	3. Chapter 3

John came back downstairs four hours later to find Sherlock in front of his computer, his eyes darting down the screen of what looked like BSL hand diagrams. 

_So at least he needs to learn them too,_ John thought, somewhat appeased as he walked into the kitchen to get his kit. He had to redo Sherlock's bandages, but at least this time he had had time to learn the signs. He stomped and signed. 

"-Head -bandage. -I -put on -you" he signed slowly. By the time he got to 'bandage' Sherlock was already frowning heavily. 

"-Now? -why?" Sherlock signed back and John felt his whole face stretch into a grin when he realized he'd understood. 

"-I -understood!" John signed back happily and Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly frustrated. _Right, right, move faster,_ he thought, frowning at the man before he answered his question. "-Wound. -infect. -past – eight hours." 

Sherlock seemed to consider the idea for a moment and finally nodded, looking rather resigned and apparently not even considering the idea of moving to the kitchen table where it'd actually be convenient. 

_Why on_ earth _do I bother?_ John grumbled to himself, snatching the kit off of the kitchen table. Well, shite, this he didn't know how to say. 

"-Table," John signed when he had Sherlock's attention again and mimed shoving all the shite off of it before lifting his kit slightly. Sherlock smiled slightly and did exactly that, shoving his two hands forward from past John's laptop and pushing everything else there onto the floor with a tumbling crash. John jumped back to avoid getting hit by any of it. 

_Right. Just... right,_ John thought, glancing over the pile of books, pens, newspaper pages, notebooks, and the shards of what _used_ to be a coffee cup at his feet. 

_Yes,_ he thought, still processing, and feeling a twinge of a smile touch his face at the sudden godawful mess. 

"I thought you liked that cup," he said but, of course, Sherlock wasn't looking at him and he didn't know the signs. God, he needed to learn these faster. "I don't have a favorite; what possible use could that have?" John mocked to himself, it feeling too silent without the phrase. He missed _Sherlock,_ he realized, stepping back a bit again and glancing at the genius currently peering into his laptop. John put his kit on the table and opened it up, not quite sure what to think. He'd just hope Sherlock healed within the next few weeks and the BSL would be rendered useless. 

He read over Sherlock's shoulder as he worked on cleaning the lacerations and tried to ignore how strangely painless Sherlock acted. Also...The man was reading sign language signs for sexual positions. Like that wasn't at all awkward. 

John reached past Sherlock's shoulder and signed 'really'. Sherlock turned slightly in his chair and grinned. 

"Lestrade is on his way. I figure these could come in handy if Donovan and Anderson and I are allowed in the same room again". 

"-Help -how?" John signed warily, even as he heard the door downstairs slam. He ignored his question to ask the more pertinent. 

"-You -know -how?" 

"Lestrade sent me a text. They have a double murder," Sherlock was rubbing his hands together excitedly before clicking down to read the last of the page. John busied himself getting the wounds clean, knowing there was no way Sherlock was going to allow him to finish re-bandaging them now. He moved to write a protest about it and the risk of infection but all the writing supplies were currently on the floor, threatening to trip them. He went back to reading Sherlock's screen but stopped seeing its title. 

"-That -A-S-L," he protested. 

"So?" Sherlock asked, apparently unfazed. 

"-A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N," John replied, his fingers twisting slowly into the letters. Sherlock just stared at him, apparently still waiting and John reached for the damn writing supplies. 

**Useless if I don't know them,** John stated. 

"I printed out these pages," Sherlock defended, his eyebrows furrowed like he was trying to figure out why this wasn't obvious. John glanced up to see a pile of what had to be multiple blocks of paper covering the floor in front of their printer. The printer itself was blinking out its 'no ink' indicator and John felt his eyebrows rise. He couldn't learn that much. 

_Not the point,_ he reminded himself, going back to his note. 

**We don't be able to speak to anyone else in the country,** he wrote before hearing Greg's steps heavy on the stairs. 

"Oh bugger it," he muttered, stepping away from being half draped around Sherlock before Greg got far enough up the staircase. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him but didn't comment as he got up and rushed for his coat. His kit would have to get put away later, John decided, sighing as he moved after the man, but Sherlock turned away from the door and dug in his desk. He groaned when he saw the genius pull out a new ink cartridge packet. 

"Sherlock!" Greg's voice came from below as Sherlock was pressing a new ink cartridge into the printer. He chucked the old one into the waste as he started for the door and John groaned as the printer booted back to life and started pushing out another page. 

"No time to lose, Inspector, the game's afoot," Sherlock said, brushing past the man on the stairs. Lestrade caught the railing to steady himself and shot an exasperated look at John. "And try to remember I am deaf. Calling for me only makes your stupidity the more obvious. Text us the address, we'll take a cab," Sherlock called back up to them. 

_How did he-?_

"Better than him bored," John replied to Greg's annoyed glare at the staircase wall. 

"Oh, does Sherlock have a case then?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her head poking up from the stairs below. "I heard such a ruckus." 

"Looks like," John replied, moving toward her as he heard Sherlock shout 'Come on!' at the top of his lungs outside. 

"Ooh, good thing that. Glad to see you too safe from that Baskerville place. I've heard its good enough to give anyone the willies," she said, shivering to herself before smiling to him. 

_She doesn't know,_ John realized awkwardly but Sherlock was shouting again. John waved a hand at her, agreeing as he rushed out the door. Sherlock was already halfway into the back of a cab and John climbed inside after him. 

"-Why not -car -G-R-E-G?" John asked yet again. Every time he asked Sherlock ended up getting him on another subject. 

"-G-R-E-G?" Sherlock asked, already looking away to glance at the city outside. Something every one of his sign language 101 websites had told him was rude but he'd never really understood why until just then. It was like he was getting spoken to by a pair of disembodied hands. More difficult, certain, but also... vaguely disconcerting. Also...John smacked Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention. 

"-Who -G-R-E-G?" John repeated before smacking his own forehead. "-L-E-S-T-R-A-D-E, -You -know -him -five -year. -Wanker." Sherlock's eyes lit up at the last and he grinned. 

_Oh yes, now you're proud of me._

"So you two are deaf then, are you?" the cabbie asked them from the front. John stared for a moment, utterly flummoxed before turning to face Sherlock again who was glancing quickly between him and the front of the car, looking confused. 

"-Car -driver -ask -if -we -deaf. -Talk -aloud," John related. Sherlock blinked at him a moment and John allowed himself to chuckle, thrilled when Sherlock leaned back into the car seat and joined him. God, it felt good, like he'd gotten Sherlock back and John focused on the sheets in front of him, determined to learn them even if he couldn't speak to anyone else in the country at the end of the day. That was hardly the point. 

~~/~~ 

They stepped out of the cab car onto the kerb of a fairly well-lit but dingy section of the city. Lestrade was waiting at the front of a brick row home, looking exasperated already. 

_Not a good start,_ John thought, approaching with Sherlock. Neighbors were standing on their porches on either side of the crime scene home, peering at Lestrade. 

"I always arrive first, why do you always insist-" Greg started growling before apparently remembering yet again that he was essentially only speaking to John. "When is he going to heal?" he asked instead. John shrugged, wondering quietly if he should mention that it might not be temporary at all, Sherlock was just taking it that easily. 

"Yet more evidence that being deaf is far more convenient than its usually considered," Sherlock muttered and John did his best to hold back a grin. Greg raised an eyebrow at him and John thought he probably hadn't managed particularly well. Sherlock led the way past the Inspector, striding into the building as John yet again tried to get the damn question answered. 

"-Why -not -car -G-R-E-G?" he asked when Sherlock turned around to face him. Sherlock rolled his eyes, apparently deciding to ignore the question once again. 

"What do we have?" he asked. They were standing in what was surely supposed to be the living room of the home. There was a fireplace set into one wall and a staircase blocking most of their view into the next room which looked to be an open dining room. The entrance room however, had nothing in it but what looked to be a full sized pool table, an empty rack for pool cues, and a mostly empty bookcase filled with psychology textbooks. Odd as it was, John mostly found himself just looking around for a body. 

"Two dead in the office upstairs," Greg said to John, looking rather confused. John waited until Sherlock was done scouring the place and refocused on him. 

"-Two -corpse." He just pointed to the stairs, not knowing the word. 

"What, you're learning sign language, then?" Lestrade asked, glancing between the two of them. Sherlock smirked, though it wasn't clear how much he understood of that and headed upstairs. 

"Just the words for crime scenes, mostly," John replied, shrugging. Lestrade nodded. 

"Yeah, that's a pretty good idea," Greg accepted, blinking. 

"How do you say, 'my god, you killed them, you creepy wanker?'" Donovan asked, coming around the corner from behind the staircase. John blinked. 

"You just talk like that, in front of the boss that hired us?" John asked, blinking rapidly. He'd seen it before but he was still shocked how Lestrade didn't take the woman's attitude personally. And mentioning it still made Donovan look vaguely unsettled. 

"I tell the truth, yeah," she said, gathering her righteous indignation around herself again. "Cops need to follow their instincts." 

John nodded, blinking again. 

"So your instinct told you to insult the detective your boss hired," he nodded again, like that made sense. "Right." She scowled. "Well, thanks for that," he added, starting up the stairs after Sherlock, not missing how Greg shot Donovan a loaded glare. He followed the sounds of shuffling and turned right at the top of the stairs, into a very nice, though equally spartan bedroom. Sherlock was currently standing on the top of the queen sized bed, sniffing at the male corpse's face. Anderson was glowering in the corner with his arms crossed but not stopping him. 

There were two bodies there, presumably a man and his wife though John had learned not to assume quite as quickly. They were both pale, fair-haired people – no signs of trauma. The bed was unmade, all its blankets shoved in a pile by the base of it. The man looked to be in his mid-forties, slightly overweight and almost fully bald. The woman was of similar age, had gotten a face lift but not recently. Their rings matched – actually man and wife then. 

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked. John heard Greg and Donovan at the top of the stairs behind him and hesitated but figured he didn't have any better way for it. He climbed onto the bed by the woman's feet. 

"Oh, now both of you?" Anderson growled but Sherlock nodded at him approvingly and gestured to the body. 

"It's the only way Sherlock can get anyone in bed with him," Donovan noted. 

Now John knew why Sherlock had sniffed the corpses' faces; they smelled like more than rot and excrement. 

"-C-h-l-o-r-y-" John started, stopping gratefully when Sherlock nodded his understanding. The urine around the female body had dried into a sticky dried-peanut-butter-like consistency. Only the American medical units had ever understood why he wasn't a fan of the paste. The bodies were stiff; rigor mortis had long since set into the larger muscles and had not yet released. "-Die -past -fifteen, -twenty -hours," he estimated. Sherlock nodded and John knew the man had long before determined the same. 

_Why does this help him think?_ He wondered, not for the first time. 

"They were robbed, obviously," Anderson drawled when Sherlock glanced at him. 

"Wrong," Sherlock replied, glancing back to the corpses in front of them. "Idiot," he added belatedly. 

"-How -you -know -what -"John gestured vaguely at the man in the corner. 

"I didn't," Sherlock replied dismissively, jumping off the bed and landing with a hard _thump_ in the quiet room. "Still, it's usually a safe assumption where he's concerned." 

Anderson opened his mouth to speak but Lestrade interrupted him by clearing his throat. 

"They were in debt. The family suspected them, so they tried to keep up appearances, kept the house. Got to the end of the line and she stole from her dealer – she was probably already in debt with him, but its not 100% certain. Good day, do give me an actually _interesting_ one next time," Sherlock ordered, jumping from the bed and starting for the door. 

"Wait, Sherlock," Lestrade ordered, grabbing Sherlock's arm before he passed. Sherlock stilled and even from behind John knew he was scowling. "What dealer?" 

"Mmm, boring. Find him, find your killer. My job here is done, so get. off. me," Sherlock ordered, hissing into Lestrade's face at the end. Greg released him, looking frustrated. 

"Have a good day with that," he said to John as John walked past him to follow Sherlock. 

"Yeah," John replied, knowing what he meant. 

"Have a good day," Donovan added, sounding sappy sweet. She always did have a rather shitty sense of sarcasm. 

He got outside to see Sherlock holding a cab for him and his bad mood dissipated. God, he was pathetic. 

"I'm not going out for less than an eight again. We agreed," Sherlock announced, stepping inside the cab. John followed and pulled the door shut as Sherlock gave the driver their address. 

"Sherlock," John growled, before slamming his head back on the backrest and lifting up his hands to sign. "-We -not -agree. -You -past -say. -I -is -in -" John started. 

"Oh, shut up, it's hardly my fault you weren't listening," Sherlock argued, the same as every time they'd discussed it. John fought back a grin. They were _arguing._

"-We -not -agree," John repeated. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked out the window though John knew he could see at least some of his reflection. 

"I'm not doing it regardless," Sherlock replied without looking at him. 

"-You -find -new -puzzle -better," John replied. Sherlock smirked without glaring back at him. 

"True," Sherlock replied after a moment, smiling. 

~~/~~ 

John got back to the flat and let himself collapse on the couch, not caring that his trousers likely had corpse juices dried onto them, just urine only if he was lucky. 

"Oh good, the printer is done," Sherlock said happily, striding across the room. John happily ignored him, glad only that Sherlock had apparently found something to do, until a thick pile of paper landed on his lap. He opened his eyes and glanced at the top sheet. Sign language. Of course. John groaned. 

"What? It's useless without vocabulary," Sherlock defended, walking back toward the kitchen. John stopped on the floor heavily, glad he was wearing his heavy boots. The floor still barely shook but Sherlock turned around. 

"-This -A-S-L," John said, lifting the packet. 

"Yes. We already talked about this. It's easier to find online. Did you not hear me before?" Sherlock sounded genuinely concerned. John glanced at the ceiling, looking for his patience and leaned forward toward the man. 

"-I -learn -A-S-L. -You -make -tea -you," John replied. Sherlock looked utterly confused. 

"I don't want tea," he said finally. 

"-I -want -tea. -You -make. -I -learn -ASL," John replied. Sherlock's face lit up in understanding before he frowned. 

"I haven't had to make tea before," he protested. John lifted the packed past the edge of the couch, where he knew a trashcan waited half-empty. Sherlock huffed and turned back toward the kitchen. 

"Dull," he complained but John heard the sink run water into their kettle and he sat back, smiling. He brought the packet back onto his lap and had to sit up again to free his hands though his head already felt full to bursting with words. Somehow he didn't think he was getting the better part of the deal. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock sat at his desk and watched John in the reflection of the television screen. The man had apparently not remembered to be embarrassed to learn in front of him when he'd entered with the tea. He'd said something and took his cup, not even taking his eyes from the packet, apparently having forgotten that Sherlock couldn't hear him despite being currently occupied with learning to sign. Still, Sherlock felt oddly happy at the man allowing him to watch him learn. 

At the moment, John was learning colours. Sherlock could barely stand to watch him without wincing, even as he knew that if he made any comment John would hide in his room to learn it. That or defiantly decide to learn in front of him anyway. John was somehow self-conscious until there was an open conflict, and then he seemed to be utterly unintimidated. But _god_ what would it be like to learn so slowly? The man was putting nonsense phrases together, as if somehow that _helped_ but Sherlock couldn't tell any difference, the man was still mouthing 'blue' and staring up at the ceiling, apparently having lost the memory entirely, when he'd signed it correctly only the day before. It was going to take the man _years_ to learn the language, if he continued at this progress rate. 

Sherlock blinked, suddenly determining a new project. Somehow he needed to make John's brain learn. He stood, heading for where John's laptop was balanced precariously on the mantle from when he'd needed to look up the reproduction rate of sea slugs. He needed adult learning progress statistics. There was a fairly good chance that if his hearing did improve he'd need to deafen himself again – which meant his assistant _needed_ to know how to sign. And somehow, over the last year, John had become more than an interpreter could be – _John_ needed to learn how to sign; this was just two birds with one stone. 

~~/~~ 

John glanced up to see Sherlock holding a pile of random objects in his arms in front of the couch. He barely had time to furrow his eyebrows in confusion before the man was dropping a pair of speakers, a red dishcloth, an unripened apple – when had they gotten that? - a bag of rice, and -was that a fork?- at his feet. 

_What the devil?_

Sherlock went bounding off and, deciding quickly that he'd put the food away _later, thank you,_ John went back to his book. Only to be interrupted when Sherlock dropped another load of crap on top of the last one. 

"-What?" John signed. 

"-Wait," Sherlock replied and continued gathering crap off of his desk, off the mantle, out of his bedroom, out of John's bedroom - _that's my sweater_ , John noted, getting concerned for it's safety - before the genius finally planted himself on the floor in front of him, dumping the last pile of his stash. 

"-devil, -what?" John tried, and Sherlock shook his head. 

"-What -devil?" he corrected and John nodded, only to repeat the question to him. 

"-We -talk," Sherlock ordered, practically glaring at him while he signed. 

_Okay..._

"Why?" John asked and gestured to the massive mess Sherlock had just finished making. 

"-Teach -you. -You -learn -?" Sherlock made some gesture that John didn't catch. 

"-Speak -you -why -not?" John asked and Sherlock cocked his head. John rolled his eyes and clarified. "-I -prefer -you -speak," he said and tried to gesture away from his mouth for something like 'aloud'. Sherlock furrowed his eyes looking confused and John sighed. "-easy," he added, not wanting to say the whole truth of it. 

"-You -learn -sign," Sherlock replied, apparently ignoring his request. 

"-Why? -I -learn -talk -with -you. I -not -need -learn -sign," John said, rather proud of the string of words. Sherlock smiled at that slightly, looking inordinately pleased with the statement that it was, in fact, all about him. 

"Think it through. We'll have a language no one else can understand. The possibilities are endless," Sherlock tented his fingers together under his chin, smiling to himself. 

_Right,_ John thought, nodding. 

"We need to chose a grammar structure, assuming you care to use one at all. It does seem advisable, given that you'll need all the clarity you can get," Sherlock stated, before plowing on like there was no possible way he'd be offended by that. "I prefer ASL; it's linguistic patterns are far better studied. That said, the grammar is mostly for your benefit so I thought it best to leave it up to you." John nodded. 

"Thanks. Yeah, sure, whichever," he said, nodding at the man. Sherlock nodded back. 

"Excellent. Shall we?" he said, as if they were about to leave. John glanced at the pile of rubbish at his feet. 

"Why?" he asked, pointing to the pile and Sherlock grinned, looking thrilled with himself. 

"-We -speak. -You -learn -?-" Sherlock replied and John did his best to repeat the gesture and look maximally confused. 

"-F-A-S-T-E-R," Sherlock spelled and repeated the gesture. John parroted it back and Sherlock nodded. 

Sherlock was going to _teach_ him? John was curious to see it, even if it was doomed to have the man trudging away from him in under a minute. 

"-You -teach -me -why?" John asked. Sherlock blinked. 

"-want -speak. -You -?- -? -?" Sherlock went off on hand gestures John didn't understand and he held out a hand. 

"-No, -no. -I ask you -future," John replied and Sherlock nodded, apparently utterly unperturbed by the idea that John hadn't already memorized the entire B.S.L dictionary. "Why?" John demanded again, pointing at the rubble at his feet. Sherlock's eyes lit up, like he'd forgotten about it entirely. 

"-We -talk -about -" Sherlock gestured to the rubble. "-You -learn -talk -faster." Sherlock pointed to the dishrag. "This. Colour?" he asked. John caught on and blinked at the man. Christ, the genius was actually going to try to sit on the floor for god knew how long and talk to him about red dishrags? The man's patience would break in a second but but _still._ John felt a smile stretch across his face. Sherlock was so unpredictable it felt impossible to get to know him and right now the man was being _sweet._

"-Colour. -What?" Sherlock tried again, signing slower now before he picked up the dishrag again. 

-Red," John answered and the man broke out in a grin like he'd done the most amazing thing in the world. John wanted to cover his face in embarrassment. Sherlock's glee didn't even look faked. John was reminded for a second of Sherlock's reaction when a step in an experiment was completed successfully and felt a jolt of nervousness jolt through him, wondering if he'd just created a monster. 

"-This -?. Colour?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the apple. 

"-? -Apple?," John answered, doing his best to copy the gesture. Sherlock nodded quickly, his eyes darting over John's face. "-This -apple -yellow," John stated. 

"-Why?" Sherlock asked. John felt his eyebrows furrow automatically. "-Talk" Sherlock demanded. 

"-the apple-" John rubbed his hand down his face. Did he know any friggin' words that could mean 'ripe'? 

"Ripe," Sherlock said aloud, opening and closing two pinched hands in front of him. 

"-Apple -ripe -not," John put together. Sherlock beamed again. 

"-You -buy -apple -when?" he asked. John blinked. 

"-I -buy -not," John replied and again Sherlock smiled like he'd done something wonderous. John found himself smiling back, almost enjoying this now. 

"-Buy -?-," Sherlock replied. 

"-What?" 

"-Person -have -house. –?," Sherlock replied, repeating the gesture. 

"Landlady?" John guessed aloud, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock nodded. 

"-Apple, -buy -landlord," Sherlock replied. 

"-When?" John asked, not caring about the answer at all. He'd apparently found the only way in the world to get Sherlock to talk about meaningless drivel; do it in a foreign language. This was bizarre; they were doing _small talk._ John hadn't thought Sherlock had any idea _how –_ though given, perhaps he didn't; most people didn't bring three dozen items as fodder to their small talk sessions. Though, John noted, looking it all over, it had a sense to it. Something of every color, every shape, every material; the words he'd been learning. 

"-Apple -yellow. -Less than – one week," Sherlock answered him. 

"-made -what?" John asked roughly, pointing at the salad bowl at his feet. Sherlock signed something to him and John copied it back; that must be _wood_ then. Sherlock reached forward, grabbing his hands to reshape his hand into the 'saw'. John blinked and retried the sign, unsure quite what to think. Sherlock didn't touch people often, but it wasn't unheard of. He'd just never seen the man touch someone _gently,_ since he'd seen the man kiss Molly's cheek the Christmas before and that had only happened after the horrid awkward moment from hell. 

"-B-S-L, -A-S-L, which?" John asked and Sherlock blinked. 

"-A-S-L, -you -ask -why?" 

John sighed. It was true; at this rate he was never going to be able to keep them apart. 

"-Bowl, -You -get -where?" John asked, just to get Sherlock to grin again. He did and John wondered how in the _hell_ Sherlock was not dying of boredom yet. 

"-Not -mine. -Own -woman -landlord," Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes. 

"-Eyes -put -you -in," John pointed at the bowl to finish his statement, unsure how to do pronouns. 

"-The bowl," Sherlock said, then gestured to his side. "-you -eyes -put," he said, miming putting something into that space. John copied him as best he could. 

"-not -your. -You -put -not -eyes -in -it" John replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes and John grinned. They were _arguing._ He was going to manage this. 

"-Why not?" Sherlock asked, though from his smirk John knew he already understood why that was not even close to okay. 

"-Why not? You know. -In -bowl -we -put -food. -Put -your -eyes -in -your -bowl," John replied and Sherlock smiled again and moved to correct him. 

It was actually that out of character, John thought, watching the man through an hour of the practice. Sherlock spent hours at his experiments, staring into a microscope, waiting for some miniscule change with no apparent sense of boredom at all. John was just apparently his latest project and suddenly, with that, Sherlock could be the most patient teacher known to man. 

"-Sign -E-N-O-U-G-H -how?" John asked finally, when he felt his eyes were about to cross and it was time for dinner. Sherlock taught him to brush his dominant hand over his fist twice. Christ, it was annoying being left-handed with a right-handed teacher. 

"-Alright. -Thank you, -enough," John signed before he pushed himself up off of the couch. Sherlock blinked, looking confused. 

"-Enough -what?" Sherlock asked and John shook his head. 

"-No. -Talk -aloud -you," John ordered and Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. 

"-We -only -just -start -J-O-H-N," he whined and John stepped over the pile of random belongings waiting on the floor and strode toward the kitchen where they kept the take-away menus. 

"-We -talk -sign language -four -hours," John replied, turning to sign to the man before he started rummaging in the menu drawer. Sherlock's eyes lit up and the man grinned, apparently only just realizing that John would have to keep signing anyway. "-Yes. -You -deaf -still. -I -sign," John replied to the man's stupidly uplifted expression. God, but he wished they could just take a real break. Go back to normal and just spend the evening together. "-You -want?" John held up the menus and shifted a shoulder, doing his best to pick up the strange habit "we go out. Which?" 

Sherlock seemed to consider for a moment and walked out of sign into the living room. He came back with his coat and John groaned. Of course. He shouldn't have given the man the option. Staying in would mean going back to their actual lives -television and kitchen experiments, probably – and so no enforced talking. So obviously tonight Sherlock would chose to trap him somewhere. 

"-You -must -try -also. -Dinner, -you -read -lips," John ordered before moving to fetch his coat. Sherlock looked confused again. 

"What's the point in that?" he asked aloud and John exhaled quickly at the sound of his voice. It felt like relief almost and John turned away to put the menus back in the drawer, hoping Sherlock didn't notice anything weird. He'd _missed_ him. 

"-I -rest," John replied, heading down the stairway first. "-C-H-I-N-E-S-E?" he asked, turning back to look at the man. Sherlock nodded and taught him the sign. 

"If you learn sign language there is little point in me learning to read lips," Sherlock commented once they were outside. John started toward the restaurant, walking quicker than usual. He couldn't wait until he could go back to just _talking_ and let Sherlock do the puzzling it out. It was too sodding quiet this way. 

"-Talk -everyone. -Hear -you -want -not?" John asked, confused. Even Sherlock wasn't that dramatic. 

"You'll interpret the important bits. They are so rare it really won't be that difficult," Sherlock replied, splitting from him to get out of the way of a woman hauling grocery bags. 

"-I -want -eat -without -sign," John replied and Sherlock opened the restaurant door for him. 

"It's hardly a worthwhile exercise," Sherlock repeated but somehow it sounded like agreement. John walked inside and signaled to the waitress that they were looking for a table for two. She was a beautiful Asian woman about his age – no wedding ring either – but from the way she glanced knowingly between Sherlock and him John knew he had no chance. Somehow, you couldn't start getting on with a girl with 'I actually am interested in women too and not sleeping with my flatmate'. 

~~/~~ 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello all! Please, please please review?**

**Also, on ASL: What I'm doing here is called 'glossing', just writing out word-for-word what the ASL sentence would be. It takes all the connotations out of the language; you can't really say 'squirmed' with glossing, so you end up with just "sat." Which works, cause I'm making John's signing really bad, but keep in mind, ASL is way more than what you see here.**

**Review?**

Chapter Four 

Garden Paradise was a small place with comfortable booths and far too slow service but they let them run out on their bill as long as they paid in cash later so it made a good place for them. They were brought to one of the small booths set against the side wall. John took the seat facing the door as always, allowing Sherlock to deduce whatever he liked about their dinner companions if he ever got bored. 

"Hello, my name is Samantha. Welcome to Garden Paradise, I'll be taking care of you tonight. Would you like to start off with something to drink?" a decidedly non-chinese woman rattled off, standing a bit too close to their table. Sherlock glanced at him, looking confused. 

"-Welcome. -Drink, -you -prefer -what?" John figured the man could have just guessed. What else did waitresses say when they first approached? "Wanker," John added. The waitresses' eyes widened, apparently having guessed the decidedly not-subtle gesture. 

"Just water for me, thanks," Sherlock said, as always. The woman's eyes widened again. 

"You don't have an accent!" she exclaimed. Sherlock glanced at him again, this time looking actually unsure. John shook his head; not important. 

"-Say -you, '-no, -I – not -do'" John suggested. 

"No, I do not," Sherlock replied aloud, gazing sincerely into the woman's eyes as if he utterly understood what was going on. To John the lie was clear as day but the woman smiled and canted her hips slightly to the side. Sherlock glanced back at him, clearly curious now. 

"What can I get you to drink?" she asked, turning to John. 

"A Guinness, please," John requested. 

"Alright," she replied, glancing at Sherlock. 

"-Drink" John clarified. 

"Water please," Sherlock said. 

"No problem," she said, smiling fully at the man before heading toward the kitchen. 

"As of yet, deafness is showing itself to be by far superior," Sherlock commented. John shook his head; the man's emotional responses verged on the insane. 

"Two days," he commented, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked, his eyes unfocusing slightly as he processed. 

"I'll point out, I'm not eating. By rights, you should," Sherlock replied. John felt his mind whirl in a circle trying to figure out what on earth Sherlock was responding to. 

"I should what?" John asked. 

"Pay," Sherlock said slowly, looking uncertain for one of the first times in John's acquaintance. 

"-I -say -not -buy -who? -I -say -two -days?" John signed. Sherlock's face brightened, only to sour in frustration. God, but he was easy to read. 

"What about two days?" Sherlock asked. 

"Since you've eaten," John replied. "The last time was the sandwich on Tuesday." 

Sherlock focused only on John's face when he lip read but somehow it didn't feel the same as it had just four days before. The man looked so damn frustrated. 

"Fine, I'll order something," Sherlock growled, sitting back in his seat. John felt his eyebrows rise at the easy submission. It wasn't worth the effort of arguing, John figured, feeling vaguely frustrated at the thought. Couldn't Sherlock just _not_ be deaf, for a bit, when it started getting in the way of everything? He seemed to do so many other half miraculous things. 

"The wealthy woman behind you has a pet bird," Shelrock said too loudly. Definitely getting bored then. John didn't turn around, knowing there was no way the woman hadn't heard and knowing full-well Sherlock had already deduced the same. 

"How can you know?" John asked and Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. He shook his head finally – still too many option, then. Just use _context,_ John wanted to growl; he'd asked almost the same thing every time Sherlock shared one of his deductions without its context. 

"-You -know -how?" he clarified. 

"The feathers on her jacket. It's too good of a suit to suggest work in animal care and regardless no animal care worker would think to hold one of their charges while wearing a four hundred quid jacket." 

"Ah," John said aloud, nodding. 

They went silent and John glanced around the room quietly, trying to find something to occupy his mind. The silence between them felt different – less casual, less comfortable. Sherlock sat back in his chair, staring past his shoulder at God-knew-what and that wasn't odd at all but it was _tense_ now. John sat back in his chair, giving up. 

"-Okay. -You -teach -me," he said aloud and Sherlock's face lit up. The man leaned forward in his chair, meeting John's eyes. 

_Project continued,_ John thought, wanting to groan at his own idiocy. His brain _hurt._

"Material," Sherlock said and showed the sign. John copied it. "Glass. Metal. Stone -often used to say 'cement'. Rock. Brick. Street – also path or way. Sidewalk, hall. Shelf. Window. Fireplace," Sherlock listed until their drinks came. John smiled at the waitress, wondering if he looked rather desperate for the distraction. 

"Table – also desk, but make the ASL 'd' hand," Sherlock instructed, ignoring the woman utterly as she lay down their drinks and left again. 

"Sherlock, I only know BSL letters," John complained. 

"Learn the ASL ones too, it's not uncommon to see them within a sign," Sherlock ordered before tilting his head with another thought, "Also convenient if you ever need to speak one-handed. A worthwhile endeavor, regardless." 

"Sherlock, I have only barely started-" John started but from Sherlock's expression he'd already lost him. 

_Dammit._

"-I -have -only -start-past-" John tried again but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him. 

"-I -only -recent -start -I," he corrected. John blinked. 

"-I -only -recent -start -learn -BSL -letters," he stated. 

"If you were resolved to learn just the one you should have chosen ASL. The one-handed letters are far more convenient. Think it through next time." 

John pressed his fingers into his eyesockets carefully, trying to find his patience. He felt a warm hand wrap around his fingers and pull them away from his face. John felt his heart skip slightly, surprised at the gesture to see Sherlock pulling his hands away, apparently none the wiser that he was acting out of character. 

"-This -table. -Material, -what?" he asked and John sighed. 

_Of course. He just wants me to be able to see so he can drill me,_ he thought, before he smiled. And of course Sherlock would pick the one material he _hadn't_ just learned. 

"-Wood," he answered and Sherlock beamed at him again. Hell, he'd never known the man capable of smiling so much. He was going to be forever envious of Sherlock's petri dishes after this was done. 

"Do you know what you'd like?" Samantha asked, returning with their drinks. 

"He'll have the cashew chicken. I'll have the miso soup, please," Sherlock ordered, holding up their menus. The woman glanced between the two of them, looking amused. 

_We're not a couple,_ John thought but he'd given up. Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement and John rolled his eyes. 

"You guys are a great couple," she said predictably, smiling at him. John blinked at her. "Usually couples just come in here and spend the whole time on their phones," she explained, shrugging. 

"Really?" John asked, intrigued despite himself. That implied that he was actually a pretty good date partner despite it all. 

"Yeah. Did you learn BSL for him, then?" she asked and John felt himself blush. Great, now he was having an entire conversation like they were a couple. 

"Uh...yeah. But-" he started and the woman beamed at him. 

"That's brilliant," she said, nodding and holding the menus to her chest. Sherlock glanced at him and John shook his head again; not even close to important. 

"-Window. -Material -what?" Sherlock asked out of nowhere. John glanced at the waitress, smiling apologetically. She grinned back and promising their food would come soon, left them alone. 

"-Glass," John replied, pushing his brain back into it. 

Their food arrived and Sherlock scowled at him for stepping halfway through an answer. They ate and somehow Sherlock inhaling his food in front of him, glaring at John to tell him to eat faster was quite a bit more pleasant than the silence that'd come before it. 

"-sign -W-A-I-T-E-R," Sherlock said, and showed him. "-Waiter -say -what?" he asked. 

_Ah._ John blushed. A perfect time for Sherlock to actually care what the people around him were saying. 

"-She -say" he started, then stopped. "-C-O-U-P-L-E?" he asked, to get the sign. "-couple -good- make -us," he finished. "-many -couple -sit -chair, -read -" John pulled out his phone and pointed to it. "-talk not." He felt fairly proud of that one, John thought. 

"-not -talk" Sherlock corrected him, while shaking his head. 

"-not -talk? -I -thought -talk -not," John stated, confused now. 

_Well, that pride lasted long._

"-not -talk" Sherlock confirmed and John nodded. 

"-After, -she -ask, -for -you -I -learn -BSL?" John said. Sherlock nodded again and John cursed the woman, fighting back another blush. 

_Think about football,_ he ordered himself but Sherlock simply went back to glancing around the room, apparently not picking up on anything awkward at all. 

_Lucky man._

~~/~~ 

Sherlock had spent a lot of time in his childhood envying other children's minds, that knew how to make friends and run around in loud annoying little groups. He'd grown to pity them and wonder what it was like for them to see nothing as they wandered about the world, not even questions to be answered. As far as he could tell, most minds didn't see the untied shoelaces as a question, as anything at all but a benign object – which barely even made any sense, no object was just _meaningless_ but to them it was, if they noticed it at all. They were frustrating and he'd come to just find it annoying. He rarely found them more pitiable than irritating but John just _sat_ there, doing the same signs over and over as if that still had content and still, somehow, sometimes getting them wrong. John forgot things constantly, things he was actively trying to learn. How did he do that? God, Sherlock pitied him. And how in the hell did he manage to sit across the table from him so casually? Sherlock would be shooting walls. He'd have killed the waitress for interrupting him. But John just smiled at her, looking happy to have the woman talk at him. How did he _stand_ it? 

Sherlock had to admit he'd made an error in his calculations. He'd underestimated by far how much effort learning to talk with his hands would be for John. This project was going to take far longer than the month he'd given it. Sherlock felt something lift in his chest, an odd kind of joy at the thought. He was enjoying this project – greatly enjoying it, even. John looked at him like he was doing something right every time he corrected him. He was working and John liked him better for it. 

"Let's do the top one hundred most used words," Sherlock ordered as soon as he'd taken the last infernal bite of his soup. "Well, actually the last eighty five, the first one fifteen are mostly articles and the like that most sign languages have brightly skipped." 

John's face contorted into what looked like his frustrated groan, but he put down his fork. 

"Have," Sherlock signed and John copied it. And there, John's glance at his face, looking impressed and happy and approving despite it all. He'd solved Irene Adler's puzzle in less than two seconds and John looked more impressed by _to have?_ Normal humanity followed no discernible rational, he reminded himself, moving on. 

"Word. All. There." 

John was getting slower and his mistake rate was rising. This was not the established best way of learning a language. The data was clear; John needed to _speak_ and be spoken to. There were tens of thousands of ASL words; in his estimation John knew between fifty and seventy. Sherlock settled back into his chair, feeling determination settle over him. 

"-No. -forget -this. -Waste -time. -Tomorrow -work -you -learn -that," Sherlock ordered, knowing John didn't know the sign for 'waste'. He'd figure it out. "-Now, -you -tell -me -how -day -work?" 

John waited a moment – likely processing, and nodded his agreement. 

"-Good. -Two -boy -children. -Have -C-O-L-D," he answered. "-You?" 

~~/~~ 

John could not escape Sherlock's enthusiasm. The man even followed him to _Tescos,_ actually went _inside_ and proceeded to teach him every food word he could possibly remember. John hadn't expected to be quite that gratified to see Sherlock shouting at a chip and pin machine. He drew the manager's attention, even, and turned to growl at the man while John carefully continued sliding their damn items over the bar code reader. 

"You should not rely on technology that actually manages to be slower than a baboon at a register – which I accept is the best we'd possibly get at your paygrade," Sherlock was snarling by the time John finally managed to pay. 

"-We -go -now -yes?" John asked before lifting the bags. Sherlock glanced at the filled groceries and shoved his hands into his coat. 

"I got into a row with a chip and pin machine," Sherlock admitted as they walked out. John grinned. 

"-Yes, -yes, -you -do -past," he said as best he could around the bags, his smile not dimming as the plastic starting to cut into his palms. 

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock growled. John nodded and handed him one of the heavier bags. To his surprise, Sherlock took it and reached out a hand for another. 

~~/~~ 

There was something that didn't fit, Sherlock thought, staring into the river where the suspects had supposedly thrown their bounty, including a seven million dollar Turner painting that the British Museum desperately wanted back. The museum had requested him – had likely heard of him from the Golem case Moriarty had set up. Ironic, really, the man had given him an even better puzzle just by the connection. 

"John, describe this to me," Sherlock ordered, whirling to face the man. Lestrade's eyes widened marginally and he stood by John, his mouth still open. John was angled toward the man – presumably they'd been having some sort of conversation -interrupted, now, clearly, but John didn't seem to mind. His eyes slid away from Lestrade and his eyes darted around the river bank. He said something that looked like 'uh' but couldn't be confirmed – too many options; huh? and duh were still possibilities. He raised his hands to talk – now this was annoying. Sherlock liked to close his eyes for this, get the scene re-described, as if he'd never seen it, resort the information to see if something different shook out, but he couldn't with John speaking with his hands. Third mark against being deaf. 

"-We -stand -near -T-H-A-M-E-S. -There -W-A-T-E-R-L-O-O -B-R-I-D-G-E -away -four -M-I-L-E-S. -Four o'clock. -I -see -no -corpse. -We -search -in -water -past. -Find -not -something. -Swim -there -two -D-U-C-K," John said. Sherlock whirled automatically, feeling something come together in his head, something that didn't fit. Ah, true, yes, two ducks. Sherlock turned back to teach John the sign, only to stop short. The _water._ Oh! He felt that _opening_ feeling of a clue showing itself. John was right...they'd found _nothing_ , and that wasn't right at all. 

Sherlock felt adrenaline rush through him, the _chase_ and prey was near and the puzzle was almost solved; he was _catching up._ God, he hated standing still. He jumped, clapping his hands once in exhilaration but it wasn't enough, he wanted to _run, hunt, catch, fuck, slam something into a wall._ The game was on again. 

He strode toward John, collecting his emotions to hide them away again by habit. He had to be meticulous, feelings couldn't be allowed to run away with him and ruin the work before it was done. 

"Sherlock?" John asked and Sherlock grinned, seeing that sharpness in John's gaze that meant John could feel the hunt as well. 

"Nothing, John, we found _nothing,_ " he hissed in John's face. 

_Come on, catch up,_ Sherlock pushed the emotion back again. It was a chase, but a slow one. He had to be patient. 

"-We -should -find -what?" John asked, at least keeping up that far. Better than a year ago, though not by much. 

" _Metal_ ," Sherlock replied, heading toward the road for a cab. He had to pray _that_ at least was clue enough for the man but he could never truly be sure. 

The idiots had pretended to dump their stash in to the Thames but it'd been a diversion. Either damnably fortunate – to have found a bag of the right size and shape, filled with appropriately sized objects and a large painting frame – hideously unlikely – or a planned one. So..three options; they'd had it stashed nearby, someone had brought it to them, or they'd carried it into the museum with them. The heist would be more likely a success if they'd had it stashed – their followers could have noted that they were carrying the bag – but then, people were stupid. Except purses and bags were checked at the front and this was a large trash bag, large enough to fit the fake Reichenbach Fall. No, they'd have had to check it at the front and that would have put a pathetic damper on the getaway – the checkout man was clearly innocent and they'd have caught that exchange on camera. The heist was shown in its entirety. No, they'd stashed or brought in the diversion bag. The question now was if any of that would lead him to where they'd gone _after._ He needed to talk to the guard who'd chased them again. He'd evidently left something out. 

Sherlock felt a tug on his arm and turned to see John pointing behind him. He followed the gesture to see Lestrade obviously shouting something up to them. Likely irrelevant – and still more data that the Inspector simply _couldn't_ take on new information. What exactly was the point of shouting at a deaf man? 

"I'll send a text in the cab," Sherlock said, guessing Lestrade was hollering about keeping everyone informed again. Still, he had to do it – he'd need the man's officers to combthat getaway path again. John nodded his agreement and matched his stride up the steep bank to the road. 

They didn't find any clue as to where the stash was kept, which meant finding where they'd left the museum, figuring out where they'd probably caught the cab and checking every damn CCTV camera in between. Sherlock sat in Scotland yard while the officers ground through it, waiting for something useful to come out of it. In the meantime, he memorized sign language on his phone. 

Donovan came up to them and stood in front of him, her legs spread out at that shoulder-width point that meant 'aggressive' and not 'sexy pose'. What did she hope to achieve? John was certainly not going to feel threatened and he couldn't hear whatever trash talk she was spewing. Useless; what other meaning could the pose carry? Sherlock searched his memory and found nothing else that fit. 

Too many options for her first sentence; impossible to determine. His mind whirled with possibilities as she continued, slowing chopping them down. He was getting better at determining the fricatives; that was helpful. 

"Why put in this much effort just to get berated by the freak?" 

Well, that almost definitely referred to him. So, no, she was attacking them after all. Pointless, why did she bother? 

"How is that your business?" John almost certainly asked back – it was that or 'how it that your fitness?". Donovan looked annoyed at the statement. 

"Believe it or not," she started, leaning heavily into one hip, "I'm worried about you. Friends don't learn foreign languages for each other." 

_Really?_

John replied something Sherlock didn't have a prayer of catching, looking at him from the side as he did, and Donovan rolled her eyes. 

"The freak _ relationships. We all know _. _ involved with a psycho. Where will you be when _ _ over that body one day?" 

Sherlock missed John's response again, but it made Donovan back off, her hands up in surrender, though by all appearances John neither rose his voice nor snarled at all. Fourth mark against remaining deaf; he missed sentences he didn't want to. He liked hearing Donovan get told off for pretending she actually knew him or John at all. She came back from her desk, barely a second later and thrust a note at him. 

**People don't learn foreign languages for friends and I know you're not lovers. You don't even know the meaning of the word. What have you done to him?**

John leaned over his shoulder and Sherlock tilted the note to help him read it. John's eyebrows rose slightly in disbelief and he glanced up at the woman. 

"-D-R-A-M-A-T-I-C," he spelled out and Sherlock smirked. He'd have to learn that sign. 

"-I -could -do -what?" Sherlock wondered, signing to John. "-H-Y-P-N-O-T-I-S-E -you?" 

"-Convince -me, -easy," John replied sarcastically, nodding rapidly. Sherlock smiled and went back to his phone. He needed to look up 'dramatic' – apparently he had an incomplete sign language insult index. 

~~/~~ 

The police force worked late that night, staring at computer screens until they found the video clip of a homeless man trading off garbage bags with the art runner. 

"We'll never find that homeless man again," Lestrade complained, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder as they watched the video. 

"-Say -G-R-E-G -we -not -find -man -who -not -have -home," John translated. 

"He's not homeless," Sherlock replied, snapping his eyes back to the screen. 

"How do you figure?" Greg asked and John just waited, knowing Sherlock would show off and explain it himself. 

"His shoes. They're too new," Sherlock said without taking his eyes from the screen. "He only has one small bag to his name and he manages to keep his new shoes? No, they'd be stolen by now unless he could defend them. The others would eat him alive if they found him, which they almost certainly have done. No, the others have been paid off. Ergo, not homeless," Sherlock explained aloud, even as he clicked through the video, frame by frame, his eyes searching. 

"Nothing else prominent here," he said suddenly, standing up and almost knocking into the officers watching the clip with him on the computer. John backed up quickly, giving Sherlock space to get out. 

"Come on, John," Sherlock invited, striding off. 

~~/~~ 

"Got any change?" the ragged woman called out to them, venturing out from beneath the bridge. Sherlock nodded, striding for her. 

"This is your territory, then?" he asked and the woman stopped to peer at him, looking suspicious. 

"Who wanna know?" she asked. 

"Was there a bloke around here, about 1.8 meters tall, thin but not hungry, blond, pinched face, good shoes – almost new?" he asked, apparently having understood her question. The woman's face lit up. 

"I knew him," she said simply. Sherlock walked forward and slipped her a few quid. "He's not from around here. Who knows where he's from," she said, eying Sherlock's hands. "Don't really swap insurance numbers out here, you figure." 

Sherlock handed her another note. 

"Keep an eye out," he ordered and them strode on to find the next link in the network. 

By two AM there was nothing more to do but wait and John blessed Sherlock as the man finally gave their address home to the waiting cabbie. 

"Oh thank god," John breathed, leaning his head back on the vaguely ill-smelling headrest. Sherlock lay his head back beside him and tilted it to stare at his lips. 

"Why does your ability to read lips fluctuate wildly?" John asked, closing his eyes. 

"Mmm. I'm trying to convince you it's easier to sign," Sherlock replied. 

_Right. He would just admit to that freely_ , John thought. He considered opening his eyes to glare but it was too much effort. 

"John, wake up. John," 

"Hrnuh?" John asked, pulling his head up and trying to drag himself out of sleep. 

"We're here," Sherlock said. John opened his eyes. Oh, Christ, they were still in the cab. And his face was currently buried in Sherlock's hair. 

Christ, he smelled good. John pulled his head up wearily, deciding he was too tired to give a shit about the looking-straight project. Sherlock would probably safely miss a couple dozen blatantly sexual advances before he caught onto one regardless. He dragged himself out after Sherlock and stumbled toward 221B, doing his best to stay asleep. 

He ran headlong into Sherlock's still back and knew what was coming. 

"Oh god no," he mumbled against Sherlock's coat. It was warm, and he didn't give a shite. This was probably the most sleep he was going to get all night. 

"Oh!" Sherlock said aloud and John groaned again. "Hold the cab!" 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock glanced at where John was leaning on him, his mouth drooling on his coat. He liked these moments, when John did things that had cabbies glancing back at them, looking suspicious. It was good, even if John didn't want it – though that was probably wrong. He wasn't supposed to like things John didn't know about, that John couldn't refuse when he would do so, otherwise. Sherlock shifted his shoulder so John's head started to slide off him. The man snorted and sat up, blinking owlishly and the cabbie looked away, apparently bored. 

They had to get back to the bridge near Paddington. How had he missed it? The _coat._

_~~/~~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please review if you like it?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews!**

Chapter 5 

"-I -hate -your -cases," John said as Sherlock opened the door to 221B and stepped back to let John stumble inside. John did so, almost missing the step up and shuffled down the hallway. 

"It wasn't all that difficult," Sherlock replied, following him up the stairs. 

There was a new scuffmark in the wall paper. Either something or someone had gouged it in going up the stairs – it was skewed upwards, deeper on the higher side. _Someone_ , certainly – no European animal was tall enough to make a mark that high. An intruder, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft – that counted as an intruder, someone John invited, Lestrade. He'd been with Lestrade. Intruder or Mrs. Hudson or someone John invited. 

"Did you invite anyone here?" he asked. John turned back to him, looking confused. Confused why he'd asked or confused how he knew? Impossible to tell. John shook his head 'no'. 

_So Mrs. Hudson or an intruder_ , Sherlock thought, moving to follow the man. Carrying something _up,_ that made a thief unlikely. So Mycroft, a client, a particularly fervent delivery man, an enemy, a cop, an EMT squad, a bomb squad, or Mrs. Hudson. There was no package by the door, and even a particularly fervent delivery man would leave it outside the main apartment. There were no other signs of a struggle, but even if Mrs. Hudson were screaming for help upstairs, he wouldn't know. There was dirt in the stairs, formed in hard dots pressed into the carpet, now decompressed and separated. High heels. So Mrs. Hudson had gone upstairs and had been close enough to scrape something against that wall; but had she? 

John said something but Sherlock missed it. The place had been dusted – Mrs. Hudson had definitely come upstairs, then. He refocused on John's moving hands. 

"-Come -woman -landlord," John said. Sherlock blinked and stared at him. This didn't seem to be one of those moments where the man could keep up but – John held up a note. Ah. 

**Hello boys! I brought you two a loaf of the nut bread I made. It's overbaked but that'll have to do.**

**Toodaloo,**

**Martha**

"Her first name is Martha?" Sherlock asked, expecting to see John roll his eyes in exasperation but instead the man blinked and rechecked the note. 

"-How -I -don't know -that?" John asked, the note in his hand mangling all of the words. Sherlock smirked. 

"Your mind may be improving – deleting information that's not valuable. We clearly deduced her identity without knowing her name via the dust on the mantle place, it's not that far a stretch to assume we'd be able to do so again," Sherlock replied. 

John mouthed something, looking confused. Bust/cussed/dust/fussed/gust/just/lust/must/rust/? 

Dust, clearly. Oh, dull. Then how did John know who had written the note? The mark on the wall, the high heel? He hadn't seemed to have seen any of it. No, he'd just assumed. Dull. And a dangerous habit, but John could never seem to get over it. 

"-H-U-D-S-O-N, -her -F-I-R-S-T -name -what?" John asked. Sherlock felt himself blink again, thoroughly confused now. Either John had forgotten the information that quickly – hard to believe even despite having watched him learn – or this was some sort of test. But test of what? It was surely impossible even for an average brain to forget data so quickly. 

"Martha, why?" he asked slowly and John smiled, pointing to him triumphantly. 

"-You -not -D-E-L-E-T-E." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide it. Why didn't people just _think?_

"It's a turn of phrase, John. I delete something by allowing my mind to forget it, how would such a thing be instantaneous?" 

John's face seemed to clear, though his eyes were still bloodshot and ill-looking. 

"-I -don't know -how -you -remember -forever. -I -know -how -you -forget -how?" John argued, his hands slowly moving from one word to the next. Yes, this was more important; he had to make the man speak. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, doing his best to think of something appropriately snarky that would set the man off, but John pointed at him, looking threatening. 

"No," John mouthed before signing emphatically. "-No. -You -shut up. -I -sleep," he said, walking toward the hallway. Sherlock started toward the living room but the lights flashed on and off. The rate was steady, slow, not like an electrical failure. He turned to see the man signing again. "-You -play -not. -I -kill -you," 

"-You -don't play -or -I -kill -you," Sherlock corrected, sliding his body side to side with the sentence. John flipped him off and Sherlock grinned. 

"If you're going to kill me anyway, I have nothing to lose," Sherlock argued reasonably, but he headed for his microscope. He had to check the slides again but then he'd collapse on the couch. It'd been a good case; had taken a week and the police had been at odds to find any clues at all. An unsolvable case, without him. 

~~/~~ 

John woke up the next morning to sun shining into his room. He'd actually managed to wake up on his own. Apparently Sherlock had found something quiet to focus on. 

"Oh, thank god," John said aloud, rolling over to stare at the ceiling and rubbing at his eyes. 

He went downstairs in his boxers, bringing his towel, and found Sherlock perched on his chair in front of a laptop – his own, for once. 

John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder at his screen after his shower and found the man scanning down another list of words. The printer was stacked with pages. The damn sheets had fallen to the floor, scattering beside the desk by Sherlock's foot but the man didn't seem to notice and the damn thing was blinking - out of paper, then. More ASL or BSL or whatever Sherlock had him learning now. 

_Just go get dressed,_ John told himself, fighting for his patience as he wandered toward the stairs. He dawdled with his clothing but he knew he couldn't hide up in his room forever. If nothing else he was hungry and Sherlock would barge in to find him if he waited to long; that'd been made perfectly clear. 

John snuck downstairs but had barely stepped into the kitchen before he heard Sherlock bounding out of his chair. 

"No," John said, pointing to the man. It'd been affective the night before. "-I -eat. -Hungry." He turned and pulled open the refrigerator, ignoring the femur in a jar of blue juice that was leaning precariously close to his eggs in the door. He grabbed the eggs and pulled a pan out of the cabinet. "Clean?" he confirmed though Sherlock was fairly good about only putting clean instruments away. The man stared at the ceiling for long enough that John was glad he'd asked and nodded firmly. 

"Eggs," Sherlock stated and banged his hands together, like fists. 

"-That -word -mean -H-A-R-D," John argued, confused. 

"-Different -A-N-G-L-E," Sherlock replied off hand. "And also different language, as that still seems somehow relevant to you." 

"Right. Great," John complained aloud, cracking his eggs into the pan. 

"-You -born -where?" Sherlock asked. John felt his eyebrows furrow. Random, much? 

"-C-H-A-R-I-N-G -C-R-O-S-S, -why?" John asked but Sherlock was signing again. 

"-That -not -L-O-N-D-O-N. -Move here -when?" 

John sighed. Right. Of course. More teaching. He'd have to remember when this obsession finally subsided – hopefully with Sherlock's healed ears – to never become one of Sherlock's projects again. Still, Sherlock's eyes were locked on his, intensity shining out of them and John liked it. He cursed himself for a fool but still, he liked it. 

"-My -parents -not -move. -Live -in -L-O-U-G-H-T-O-N. -I -move -10 years -past. -Go -past -London -school. -New -flat -move -with -girlfriend. -After -school -medical -we -separate -past -I -go -R-A-M-C," John answered. Sherlock leaned forward, engaged, _interested._

_This is actually rather brilliant._

"-You -go -R-A-M-C why?" Sherlock asked, leaning his hip against the kitchen countertop. John stirred his eggs in the pan for a moment, watching as they started to clump up. 

"-Past -I -feel -bored. -I -want -past -G-L-O-R-Y. -Now? -I -know -G-L-O-R-Y -very bad. -I see -children -with -I-E-D. -I -kill. -They -hurt. -I -not -help. -Come -home. -Everyone -say -you -H-E-R-O. -I -say -how -you -know? -I -past -in -A-F-G, -you -know -not -do -what. -I -go -R-A-M-C -bad -R-E-A-S-O-N," John answered before sliding his eggs off of the pan to his waiting plate. Sherlock followed him to the table and sat across from him. 

"-You -go -R-A-M-C -again -maybe?" Sherlock asked. John took a bite and chewed, thinking about it. 

"-Don't think. -like -L-O-N-D-O-N. -Murder -better -than -W-A-R. -We -finish -case -we -come -home. -I -love -have -that," John explained. Sherlock nodded. 

"-Me too," he said. "-but -say '-case -finish, -come -home," Sherlock corrected. John nodded before glancing at his cooling food. 

"-If -you -must -teach, -you -sign. -I -eat -now," John said, before picking up his fork. 

"-We -discuss -topic -what?" Sherlock asked, looking vaguely lost. 

"-You -grow up -where?" John asked to put him out of his misery. 

"-Here. -sign -L-O-N-D-O-N '-London'. -I-R-O-N-I-C, 'that -word -A-S-L, -find -more -easy," Sherlock taught. John nodded quickly, hoping he'd actually remember despite not having copied it back to the man. He was too busy shoveling eggs into his mouth, suddenly _starving._

_When was the last time I ate?_

"-I -grow up -here. -London. -House -near -10 -D-O-W-N-I-N-G -where -brother -lives -now, -we -grow up -there. -Go -school S-T-, -J-A-M-E-S. -Not fit in -natural. -ASL -natural -mean -O-F, -C-O-U-R-S-E. -After, -14 years old, -go -school F-R-A-N-C-E. -There -learn -my -French -and" Sherlock paused before miming a long stick and hitting something with it. 

"Your riding crop?" John guessed between bites. Sherlock's face brightened. 

"No, but good induction. I did learn horseback riding there as well. I've forgotten now, of course, irrelevant. No, I meant singlestick and fencing." 

"Ah," John replied simply, returning to his food. Sherlock stayed quiet, looking uncertain and John swallowed. "Go on, then," he encouraged, interested.. Sherlock glanced at John's plate, looking impatient. 

_He doesn't like talking about himself,_ John thought. It was hardly a shock; there was a reason they'd lived and worked together for over a year and only ever talked about the present. He'd just never thought of it before. And yet, Sherlock was talking remarkably freely now. How was it actually so easy to get Sherlock to talk about his past? He'd seemed so reserved about it. 

_I've never really asked,_ John realized. He'd always figured the man would sneer and teach him why it was utterly irrelevant. 

"-You -go -U-N-I-V-E-R-S-I-T-Y -where?' John asked and Sherlock taught him the sign. 

"-Two. First – O-X-F-O-R-D. -Second, -C-A-M-B-R-I-D-G-E," Sherlock answered and John raised an eyebrow in question, not bothering to stop eating. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. 

"-sign -G-R-A-D-U-A-T-E -graduate," he taught first. John nodded. "-second -school; -I -graduate -16 years old. -Live-" John didn't catch a sign and stopped him. "-D-O-R-M-I-T-O-R-Y," Sherlock signed, before showing him how it was like 'home' but with an ASL 'd hand'. God, he hated two alphabets, but John nodded as if learning both were perfectly normal. 

"C-A-M-B-R-I-D-G-E -not have- -dormitory," he answered, frowning and Sherlock shrugged. 

"-Student -house. Students -live -together -Students -similar to -S-E-B-A-S-T-I-A-N. -Idiot. -One year -after? I -leave -student -house. -Go -myself -flat." 

There was more story there, John knew. He remembered Sherlock's face, when the man was mouthing off about their school days, as if everyone hating the genius could somehow become shared nostalgia. Hell, he wished he'd punched the man. 

"-Nineteen years old? -Leave. -Start -consult -police. -Try -again – C-A-M-B-R-I-D-G-E. -Same, -Leave -again. -Continue -research -myself." Sherlock rose his eyebrows, obviously checking over his face to see if he understood and John nodded. Of course 'consult' was one of his first vocabulary words along with 'bathroom' and 'hello'. He didn't know how to say 'smooth' but 'corpse' and 'rigor mortis' were no problem, either. 

"-More?" Sherlock asked and John was about to nod when he heard the door open downstairs. He turned his head to listen at the steps. 

"Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft?" Sherlock asked and John listened harder. 

"-No -U-M-B-R-E-L-L-A," he signed and Sherlock's hands formed the sign to teach him even as he called out. 

_I think we just gave Mycroft a name sign._

"Lestrade! Tell me I have a case!" Sherlock rose out of the chair, starting toward the stairs and John yet again went back to his food, doing his best to remember how to sign 'umbrella' though he doubted it was going to come up again. 

_How did Sherlock know it wasn't Mrs. Hudson?_

"Hello, Sherlock. Is John around?" he heard Lestrade ask pleasantly, apparently having entered through the living room as always. 

"John! Get in here and tell me what Lestrade is saying!" Sherlock shouted. Louder than normal but John had to wonder if that was because he knew he could get away with it now. 

"I'll take that as a yes," Lestrade said calmly and John heard their footsteps approaching quickly. He ate the rest of his breakfast in two bites and wiped his face before Lestrade turned the corner into the kitchen. 

"Good morning," he greeted the man and Lestrade smiled at him. 

"Don't worry, I'm not here with a case," he reassured him immediately, apparently picking up on the fact that John was definitely not welcoming the idea of another night chasing some mad idea about the city. "I've got – well -cards on the table. The British Museum is throwing an event in Sherlock's honor. The press will be there, and it'd be awkward -to say the least- for the force if we show up without him," Greg confessed. "Er – you both," he added awkwardly and John picked up his plate to bring it to the sink thinking it really would have been best to have not added that last at all. 

Sherlock walked out of the room and started on his computer, probably to print out more damn words, apparently having decided that they weren't going to talk to him. Right. This was going to go splendidly. 

John flashed the lights and Greg looked at him like he'd gone spare but Sherlock glanced up from his computer. It really did work better, he thought, deciding to give up on breaking his foot against their floor. 

"-He -want -we -go -H-O-N-O-R -C-E-R-E-M-O-N-Y -M-U-S-E-U-M," John said. 

"H-O-N-O-R -I -don't know. -C-E-R-E-M-O-N-Y -ceremony, M-U-S-E-U-M -museum," Sherlock taught and John nodded quickly, parroting them back. Sherlock reached out and grabbed his hand on 'museum' and reshaped it into an ASL 'm' sign. 

_Apparently he's decided there's no rush in answering,_ John thought, amused though he suspected it meant Greg was going to have a rough time convincing the man to attend. 

"-If -museum -invite -us, -he -want -we -go -why?" Sherlock asked finally, looking affronted at the ill-use of logic. 

"-We -R-E-P-R-E-S-E-N-T," and John paused as Sherlock gave him the sign. "-We -represent -police. -If -we -don't go -they -look -bad," John answered. 

"-We -not police," Sherlock answered, his face sneering horribly as he signed 'police'. John was reminded of over a year before, sitting next to Sherlock while the man stated that he was right, the police didn't consult 'amateurs'. 

"-Museum -don't know -that. -If -we -look -bad, -police -look -bad," John answered, shrugging. Sherlock turned and peered at Lestrade. 

"What will you give me to make me go?" he asked curiously. 

"And the sick part it, I'd planned for that," Lestrade said, shooting an exasperated look at John and looking at the ceiling. Sherlock looked at John but he shook his head; not important. "Tell him that maybe he can think of it as paying me back for all the favors I've done before," Lestrade suggested, still staring at the ceiling, apparently searching for his patience there. 

"-He -say -you -owe -him," John said. Sherlock thought for a moment, before blinking and nodding sharply. 

"This one pays back all of them," Sherlock ordered and Lestrade brought his gaze down sharply to stare at the genius before his shoulders sunk dramatically. 

"Thank you," he said and Sherlock nodded. 

"You're welcome," he answered on his own. Lestrade met John's eyes, looking a bit confused. 

"So you are in all sincerity learning BSL," he said. John blinked. 

"You already knew that," he said stupidly. Lestrade shrugged and waved a hand between them. 

"Yeah but not-" he gestured at Sherlock as he trailed off. "No one at the yard is going to believe you're not shagging now," he said, shaking his head ruefully. 

John shrugged. 

"They'll think what they will," he answered. 

"But why learn sign language?" he asked, looking utterly flummoxed now. "I mean, a few words, sure, but the man can read lips." 

_Because I want to hear him speak to me without having to think about it._ Yeah. That wasn't on. 

John shrugged. 

"He gets brassed off in a minute otherwise," he answered instead. 

Sherlock growled in his throat and walked over the coffee table to plop himself down on the couch, apparently done with them if they weren't going to speak with him. Right. Crap. 

John walked over and touched his shoulder. Sherlock spun, clearly only to flip him off, and started to turn back into the couch to sulk. John caught him again. 

"-He -ask -why -I -learn -sign," John answered. Sherlock pouted, but stayed facing him. "-Sorry," John added. 

"What the hell are you two on about now?" Greg asked from behind him. "Will he come to the bloody ceremony?" 

"-He -ask -what -hell -we -discuss. -We -go -sodding -ceremony?" John translated. 

"Obviously," Sherlock stated and John had to agree with him. "Why would John not learn sign language?" 

_How does he change moods so quickly?_

"That it's just a bit bizarre for a man to put in so much effort for one friend. Child or wife, sure, but that's about it," Lestrade answered, refastening his coat and glancing at John sympathetically as he talked to the man on the couch 

_Awesome. Perfect._ John headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on, hoping Lestrage was about to let the conversation die. Lestrade called out his goodbye and the door closed behind him and John breathed out a sigh, hoping Sherlock continued to be his regular daft self and didn't put too much thought into it. 

_It's obvious, isn't it?_ He worried, putting the kettle into the sink to fill it. He really didn't need that awkwardness to come up. 

~~/~~ 


	6. Chapter 6

"-Colour, -your -favorite -what?" Sherlock asked. John paused, the kettle in his hand hovering over the stove, trying to process that Sherlock had asked him something so benign. Sherlock moved to sit down at the kitchen table, staring at his ribbon jars. 

"-Cream. -Probably. -Why?" John asked when Sherlock glanced up before heading to the refrigerator to see about dinner. He shouldn't have asked, he figured, as he took out some left over take-away. Sherlock had been accosting him with random questions to pester him into practicing signs every time he'd stopped studying the vocabulary sheets himself. 

"You need to speak. Say something," Sherlock ordered. 

"Colour, your favorite?" John asked and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"I don't have one, how could I? It doesn't make any sense," Sherlock complained. 

"-You -only -know -everyone -have -one?" John asked and Sherlock nodded. John took out a pan and put it on the stove before glancing around the kitchen for where Sherlock had moved the butter. 

"I don't have favorites unless there is actual content to prefer. My favorite restaurant would be Angelos, for example, but it is in an inconvenient part of the city which offsets its preference in favor of the Chinese place up the street. That is simply a process of weighing advantages. Colours, numbers, animals we don't own as pets, they don't have advantages so what is there to weigh?" Sherlock complained. John shrugged. 

"-Appear -good -or -not, -which? -Different -art -not -have -different -A-D-V-A-N-T-A-G-E," John replied, watching Sherlock's hands, expecting him to teach him the sign. He learned it best he could and moved on. 

"And art is equally valueless," Sherlock replied easily, sounding like he was agreeing with him. 

"-But -you -like -different -music -different. -You -say -you -hate -R-O-S-S-I-N-I, -different -how?" John asked before turning the stove on under his pan. 

"Intervals sound more or less beautiful to the human brain based on how close the division of frequencies is to a basic ratio. Use only these intervals and even an average brain gets bored, wanders, the song sounds sappy and contentless. The composer mixes in more discordant sounds, even as they are less beautiful, trying to perfect the right pattern of simple and complex ratios to keep the brain engaged. That's mathematics appealing to the human psychology, it makes perfect sense," Sherlock ranted, sticking another ribbon into a brown jar and checking the time. He glanced up and John replied, 

"-Right. -That -just -means -you -not -visual -man," John replied. Sherlock frowned. "-Some -could -say -about -A-N-G-L-E-S -or -something, -I -think." 

Sherlock frowned further but his eyes flashed with amusement. 

"I know nothing of the mathematics behind visual art," Sherlock dismissed but he didn't say they didn't exist and John smiled to himself as he opened up the take-away container to transfer it into his pan. 

"Oh Christ!" he shouted, shoving the package onto the stove to get it out of his hands. He switched off the stove quickly and backed away from the crawling pile of maggots stuck inside a ziplock bag where his bubble and squeak was supposed to be. 

He turned to Sherlock to see the man digging in the refrigerator. He grabbed the man's shoulder and hauled him out. 

_What more could you_ possibly _want out of there?_

"-want -find -what -more -there? -nothing -possible," he yelled at the man. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, looking confused. 

_Yeah. That didn't make any sense._

"-You -want -find -something -there, -why? -Found -enough," John tried again, pointing to the maggots. Sherlock smiled at him and buried himself again in the refrigerator. 

"Ha!" he called out finally, returning with a small slip of paper. 

**John, I highly suggest you don't open this. SH**

"Must have fallen off," Sherlock explained, looking smug. 

_Doesn't count if it doesn't stick, you wanker,_ John wanted to say but he didn't know the words. He'd have to spell it all out, and he had to figure 'count' in sign language would only refer to the numbers and maybe the nobleman if you squinted. 

He went with pointing at the maggots and signing 'wanker'. Sherlock smiled and closed the take-out container, making a show of sticking the post-it back onto the top before he shoved it to the back of the refrigerator. 

_What on earth are you doing with a chilled sandwich bag full of maggots?_

"-What -you -want -eat -dinner?" John asked instead before shoving his butter-filled pan in the sink to wash later. 

Sherlock didn't say much until they'd been seated at the Chinese restaurant. Then he practically turned on, leaning forward suddenly and starting to speak quickly. 

"-Sign -M-A-T-H- -math.-" he started. John smiled slightly, knowing where this was going. Sherlock ignored him, leaning forward. "There -many -example -math -with -art. -Example -painting -S-A-L-V-A-D-O-R -D-A-L-I -he -use -idea -of -F-R-A-C-T-A-L-S. 

"-Yes -but -that -not -what -make -painting -pretty. -Painting -today, -there -was -pattern -math?" John asked. Sherlock paused, looking frustrated. 

"-I -don't see -but -possible," he answered. 

"-You -find -painting -pretty?" John asked and Sherlock looked more frustrated. 

"-Yes -John -I -see -where -you -go," he signed, rolling his eyes. 

"Can I get you anything to drink?" 

John jerked back, startled, and saw the waitress's eyes widen. Sherlock smirked at him. 

"Sorry, just water please," John said and the woman looked to Sherlock, smiling at him. 

"Water as well," he agreed. 

"Sure," she said, before tucking her notepad under her arm and starting to sign, though John didn't catch any of it. 

_What the devil?_ He wondered, staring at the woman's hands. Samantha, he remembered her name, she'd not known a word of sign language only the week before and now she had surpassed him? 

_Oh,_ he realized, too late, when she stopped and looked at them expectantly. 

"Er- sorry, we don't speak BSL," he said. She blinked at him. 

"What else is there?" she asked and John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking surprisingly rueful. 

"ASL," he answered, raising his eyebrows at the man across from him. "American," 

"Why would you-" she started, before shaking her head, apparently deciding it was inappropriate. "Anyway, bottled or tap?" 

"Tap is fine," John replied and Samantha nodded quickly and walked away, still looking vaguely confused. "-She -learn -B-S-L -for -you, -you -know," he commented. Sherlock flicked his eyes back to the retreating waitress and returned to looking at John. 

"Obvious," he replied aloud and John rolled his eyes again. 

"-M-O-D-E-S-T," John replied and Sherlock taught him the sign. 

"Is that better? To pretend I don't realize?" Sherlock asked and John frowned, suddenly not sure. 

"-I -don't know," he admitted finally, and was hardly surprised by Sherlock glowering at him. "-Better -not think -she -want -you," he clarified. Sherlock scoffed. 

"The woman spent the entire last time we were here staring at my hair. Am I supposed to ignore all other evidence like the fact that she was serving us despite the fact that we were outside of her usual territory and think she was wondering what shampoo I use?" he hissed. 

John smiled. 

"-Almost -equal -that -yes," he said, best he could. 

"What would be the point?" Sherlock complained, leaning forward over his plate, all hard muscle and sharp focus. John leaned away from him carefully. 

_I know less than a hundred words, how am I supposed to keep up a conversation?_ John grumbled, desperately searching his mind for a way to put together a phrase that actually made sense, much less express what he actually thought. 

"-If -think -everyone -want -you, -forget -some -people -don't want. -Someone -don't want -you -think -she/he -easy. -Think -you -don't want -her/him, -want -you -not -know -if -he/she -want -you -also," John tried. 

"But I didn't say everyone wants me, I said she does," Sherlock argued. "What's wrong with that? You notice women glancing at you all the time, and that's somehow fine?" 

John thought about it and nodded. 

"-Yes. -I -P-R-E-T-E-N-D -not -obvious," he said, fully aware that it didn't make any sense. Sherlock glared at him and drew his hands through his hair. 

"See, this is why I like music. The world is full of emotional reactions that have no relation to reality. At least with music the two coincide," Sherlock complained. 

"Hmm," John grunted, blinking. That actually...made some sort of sense. 

~~/~~ 

Something had changed, Sherlock thought as he talked to the man. John was the same, the meal was the same, everything matched to four other such meals at this exact table before. Three in this same seating arrangement – John preferred to be able to see the door. Still, something was _different_ between them, mixed into all of the useless trivia he was being forced to learn. He _needed_ John to be able to speak this new language that was supposed to be his. Why? It wasn't based on any requirement from his work; he rarely needed to learn anything from Scotland Yard and when he did Lestrade could write it down. Yet that fact felt oddly irrelevant. What _was_ that emotion? 

He wanted...something from the man, something more. 

_Notice me more?_ No. That would get annoying. Distract from other experiments. 

Sherlock scowled at his food as it arrived but this was an emotional quandary, his mind would be of barely any use at all. John quieted, eating his meal and Sherlock was able to focus on the question again. 

He'd get to the bottom of it, Sherlock knew. For now, he'd continue the project. 

"Why did you become a doctor?" he asked, just to get John to focus on him again. John glanced at their full plates, concerned as always and Sherlock started in on it again. He usually needed about a third of the meal eaten to ensure John wouldn't complain – regardless of its caloric value. Idiotic. 

"-Ten years past -I -want -show -I -smart. -Classes, -other -student -learn -slow, -I -want -show -how much -I -myself -could -learn," John started, smiling ruefully. Smiling at him, at the memory, at something behind him? Sherlock glanced behind him, nothing but empty tables and the closed door to the kitchens. Likely smiling at his own thought or at him, then. 

He'd never really thought of John as particularly smart, he thought, tilting his head at the scene John was painting of his university peers. John was smarter than anyone else in his classes? Really? They must have all been so... 

"-I -know, -you -think -they -must -be - _slow,_ " John said, barely moving his hand down his arm, showing how slowly the idiots must have processed the world. Sherlock smiled slightly, not disagreeing. But John didn't look offended. 

John told the story and Sherlock found himself prompting more information without thinking about it, and John looked pleased, apparently picking up on the difference. He was never going to understand when the average mind simply observed and understood and when it just...didn't. 

"Why didn't you go into surgery?" Sherlock asked between sips of his water. A slight taste of soap; they washed the dishes by hand or with a non-industrial dishwasher, then. "Assuming this is about when you decided to go into the army. That is logical given the timing," 

He couldn't be sure about that though, and he waited on John's answer. John nodded. Timing right, then, or he'd found some other reason to nod at him -not likely. 

"-Want -danger. -Want -do -something -interesting. -Not -boring," John replied and smiled ruefully again, like he knew he'd failed. Which by right wasn't statistically true, only 0.2% of the population were injured veterans receiving military pensions; though Sherlock understood that otherwise John was in no way spectacular. Surgery would have been more effective at drawing him out of the crowd, assuming he could have gotten through the program, only a marginal probability given the 20% cumulative attrition rate. Still, Sherlock wasn't bored. Being a surgeon or not wouldn't make him more or less bored, because by rights he should be bored regardless. He just wasn't. 

He wasn't intellectually stimulated by John's stories, no, but somehow he didn't much care. John was intrinsically important in a way that didn't make sense. 

The waitress dropped off the cheque. Sherlock slipped his card into it and handed it back before she left and John leaned back in his chair, looking comfortable. 

"-Why -you -study -C-H-E-M-I-S-T-R-Y?" he returned and Sherlock moved to speak before switching to sign. He'd _forgotten_ about the project? What was John _doing_ to him? 

~~/~~ 

John was almost up to begging for Sarah to let him come to the clinic early by the time the weekend ended. Sherlock dogged him everywhere, asking him about materials and his food preferences and his childhood. There really wasn't much to say and the hand signs -so easy to keep straight at first -had started getting scrambled in his mind until almost every sentence he spoke had Sherlock peering at him like he'd gone mental. 

He got to work and found himself paying too much attention to everyone's hand gestures, confused when halfway through a sentence people said 'what?' or 'here' or how much'. They tended to say 'where' randomly when they said 'no' to their children and his head was pounding with the idiocy by the time he'd gotten to his lunch break. 

Sarah shot him a glance he couldn't decipher when he finally walked out of his office to head out, feeling far too exhausted to go home to his stupidly intense deaf flatmate. 

"Congratulations on the case," she said, smiling softly as he walked past her desk. John turned back. 

"Sorry?" he asked and she shrugged. 

"The Reichenbach painting, wasn't it? It's all over the papers," she replied, looking confused now. 

"Oh, yes, well, all Sherlock, as you know," John replied, his mind already returning to how to differentiate 'coat' 'live' 'bath' 'backpack' 'have' and 'animal'. They all looked _identical._ Maybe Sherlock would consent to switching some of the words to BSL versions. If so, he was going to request they do the same with 'deaf' and 'yesterday'. 

"Mmm," Sarah said and John refocused, thinking for a moment that he'd strayed too close to the 'Sherlock' topic. Keeping in contact with exes was far more work than seemed worth it. 

"Well, goodnight," she dismissed and John nodded. 

"Thanks, you too," he replied, heading for the door. 

He found a paper in a pound shop by the train station. Sherlock was plastered all over the front, barely hidden by the deerstalker. Still, the hat made him barely look like himself at all so perhaps the public image wouldn't be too damaging. He left the paper at the shop, not needing to read anything more than the front page to know that they still hadn't figured out the man had been deafened. He hadn't put it on the blog yet, hadn't written anything at all since that night. It felt like it wasn't his story to tell, despite how long he'd been writing about their exploits together. 

He got back to the flat to see Sherlock likely hadn't seen the paper at all. The man had bits of ribbon strewn over the kitchen table, each submerged in a bottle of some sort of brown liquid and he was peering at each of them in turn like they held the secret of the universe. John waved 'hello' and headed for his room to change. No doubt when he'd got back he'd have to go back to signing – which meant he'd better figure out the difference between 'live' and 'coat' before he got back down. 

_~~/~~_

They arrived at the British Museum on time, for which John was grateful. He was dressed in the only suit he owned – he'd started to think of it as his funeral suit before that morning. Sherlock, of course, went in his usual attire and managed to outdress him anyway. 

"Stop fidgeting, we're very unlikely to get killed," Sherlock muttered as they entered the large antechamber. 

"-I -told -you, -I -not -dress -good -enough," John complained as they entered. There was a man dressed all in black handing out _champagne glasses_ for hell's sake. 

"We're being celebrated, we'd be allowed to wear jeans if we'd like; they can hardly kick us out," Sherlock replied, seeming utterly comfortable as he strode into the marble hall. A woman held up a hand, striding toward them. 

"Sorry, lads, private party, the museum's closed for the next three hours," she said quietly. 

_Three hours, good lord,_ John thought, glancing at the door, wanting desperately to turn around. 

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduced himself, though John wasn't sure whether he'd understood her statement or simply hadn't cared to ask him what it was. Her eyes widened as she shook his hand. 

"Oh, dear Lord, I apologize. It's not too often the curator throws an honor ceremony for a man I haven't met," she said, smiling away her embarrassment easily. John did his best to smile in return and Sherlock clasped his hands together. 

_Marriage._

John felt his jaw clenched. He wasn't coming on to her. 

_Yet,_ his mind supplied unhelpfully, glancing over the woman as he stuck out his hand. 

"John Watson," 

"Victoria Hendrick, Curator's Assistant. May I thank you personally for your good work," she said, clasping his hand and smiling halfway through a word, right before a camera flashed. She did have a ring. Damn it. 

_She's good at this,_ John thought, sure he'd look about mental in the photograph. 

"Shall I show you into the chamber? The painting is on display just on the left there, until it is put back in its proper place. I'm sure Mr. Wilson will be overjoyed to meet you both," she said, gesturing widely to the hall. 

Sherlock glanced at him, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. 

"-You -want -meet -W-I-L-S-O-N?" John translated and watched as the woman's eyes widened in what looked like fear. 

"-No," Sherlock replied, pinching his fingers. 

"W-I-L-S-O-N, who?" John asked back, lost. 

"-C-U-R-A-T-O-R," Sherlock replied. "-Don't -know -word." 

"Deaf," the assistant mouthed out, looking horrified before she drew herself up, looking organized again. "Would you like me to arrange an interpreter for you, for the evening, sir?" she asked, as if that were entirely possible. 

"-You -want -she -find -I-N-T-E-R-P-R-E-T-E-R?" John asked. Sherlock looked confused. 

"-What do -you?" he asked and John nodded. 

"That'd be me," he said to the woman and watched as her shoulders fell with relief. 

"Of course," she said, smiling wonderfully at him again, more so now that she seemed to understand why he was there. "Excuse me." 

She hurried off, presumably to go warn the entire museum staff that Sherlock Holmes was deaf and that they were to pretend that they had known that truth the entire time. 

"M-Y-C-R-O-F-T -like -her, -I -think," John stated and Sherlock glanced at her retreating back. 

"Yes, I agree. Though he does prefer to hire psychopaths for his personal assistants it would seem, and she is quite the opposite," Sherlock replied before striding off toward the center of the room. 

John blinked, processing and cursed, dodging through the crowd of suits to catch up with the man. 

"-A-N-T-H-E-A, she -P-S-Y-C-H-O-P-A-T-H?" John asked, flabbergasted. Sherlock smiled at him quietly and turned back to stare at the Reichenbach painting in front of them. 

"If she were a normal personal assistant, why would she be using a false name?" Sherlock asked, before turning to glance at him again, looking concerned. "Surely you picked up on that much." 

"-Yes," John replied, nodding. Sherlock nodded firmly, apparently pleased. "-I -past -ask -her -go -eat -with -me," he admitted, feeling his cheeks warm as he remembered that rather horrendous failure of an advance. To a psychopath, no less. He needed to google what that term really meant. Sherlock smirked at him knowingly. 

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," a loud voice boomed and John turned to see a heavy-set man walking toward them, his hand stretched out. The assistant – Victoria something? -stood behind him and rubbed at her face in apparent frustration. 

_Hence the shouting,_ John thought. This was going to be lovely. John tapped Sherlock's shoulder and gestured for him to turn. Sherlock obeyed, only to raise his eyes at the man like he'd just seen something rather disturbing. The man thrust his hand out further and Sherlock took it, glancing at John for some sort of explanation. 

"-W-I-L-S-O-N?" John guessed and Sherlock's mouth twitched. 

"Mr. Wilson," Sherlock greeted easily, his voice quiet and polite. 

_Apparently he owed Lestrade quite a load of favors._

"I hear you saved our good painting here. But do you know it's history? Let me tell you, you have saved quite the masterpiece," the man started and John started to sign, resigned that he was going to miss over half of what the man said but fortunately, Sherlock wasn't even bothering to look at him to read his hands. He was glancing over the room, looking as politely bored as the rest of them. 

They were trapped by the painting, the curator of the museum was still going on about the history of the damn waterfalls in that overly social, loud voice bordering on a shout for over half an hour before John saw Sherlock's polite reserved facade start to crack. John was trying to keep up translating the signs but it didn't help that neither Sherlock nor he knew the words for 'cliff' 'waterfall' or 'precipice' which the man so insisted on using. 

Sherlock's hands twisted slightly, spinning around and flicking out quickly. If it'd been done at his chest, it would have meant 'awful' or 'hate'. Sherlock's mouth twisted slightly in amusement as John's signing interpretation faltered. 

"-Painting -paint -past -when -Turner -came -home -winter -after -travel – what -you -hate? - when -not -school," John continued, fighting a smirk as Sherlock's face lit up approvingly. He spun his index fingers in a slight circle by his waist. John felt his eyebrows furrow. By his mouth that could mean 'truth', or 'public' but pointing up it could mean 'someone' 'alone' or 'only' or 'single'. 

"-His -paintings -something -about -building -houses -sorry -I -did -not -understand -him -you -say public?" John replied. Sherlock nodded again and John did his best to work 'why' calmly into his translation. Sherlock looked puzzled for a bit and finally stopped the curator's monologue by holding up a hand. 

"-Hate -stand -with -public. -Look -this -man. -Divorced -ten years -no -children, -all day -live -here -museum. -Hates -this -painting. -I -listen -why? -hateful," Sherlock asked, looking for all the world like he was asking something to the curator, his eyes locked on the man. The curator looked utterly baffled at the quick sign language, glancing rapidly between the John and Sherlock's hands. 

He was an overweight man with a dent in his finger where a wedding ring had worn into the skin. He did not have anyone at the museum with him, that was obvious. A family almost definitely would have accompanied him – Sherlock had likely saved the man's career recovering this painting. Still, John couldn't find any sign that the man hated the painting in question; indeed, he seemed to have an endless stream of information about it. 

"He asked, if architecture was Turner's strong suit, how is his best work Falls of the Reichenbach?" John lied. The man's face cleared and he practically beamed at Sherlock at the question and started off again. 

"-I -ask -him -thing -about -building -houses. -This -rude -if -you -wonder. -I -continue -sign -because -he -still -talk. -Not -important," John stated. 

"-You -pretend -listen -often. -We -pretend -better -now. -Worse -why?" Sherlock asked. He leaned forward toward the curator. 

"That's fascinating," he stated, interrupting the man halfway through a word. The curator faltered, looking utterly baffled for a moment. Still, Sherlock's voice had sounded entirely sincere -though not like him at all – and John watched as the curator processed and finally nodded before continuing on in his speech. 

"-It -worse -because-" John started but the truth was he wasn't quite sure. He went back to translating the curator's conversation and Sherlock smirked at him. "-Example. -in -painting -F-I-S-H-E-R-M-A-N in -S-E-A, -itself -have -very different -S-T-Y-L-E -than -R-E-I-C-H-E-N-B-A-C-H, -T-U-R-N-E-R -show -same -" God he didn't have enough words. How as he supposed to say "exhibit a similar contrast between peril and image of light?' John refocused on Sherlock, remembering their past conversation. "-They -trust -us -talk -with -them. -We -talk -other -language. -Rude -use -not -with -them," John worked in. Sherlock looked disgusted for a moment and rolled his eyes. 

"-Same," he signed at his chest and the curator didn't seem to notice. _What's the same?,_ John wondered, not following. Sherlock moved to continue, apparently seeing the question on his face. 

"Falls of the Reichenbach," a loud voice proclaimed, interrupting them and John turned away to look. The president of the museum was standing only a few meters from them, on the other side of the room. He held up his hand, gaining the attention of the room and the curator stepped away to not block their vision. 

"-That -man -who? -Don't care. -I -love -him," Sherlock stated and John choked on a laugh. He coughed into his hand as subtly as he could and Sherlock smirked at him. John started to translate, though he rather doubted Sherlock cared. It felt wrong not to. "-Museum -P-R-E-S-I-D-E-N-T, -he say -painting, -here -again -thank -your -S-K-I-L-L -P-R-E-S-T-I-G-I-O-U-S," John translated. Sherlock frowned at him and retaught him the sign for skill. John shrugged. 

_Still that stupid, yes._

The president approached them with a little box. Clearly jewelry. 

"-He -idiot," Sherlock commented when the man was only a step away from them. 

"-Take -box," John replied. The president was glancing between them, looking unsure but he held out the box to Sherlock. 

"A small token of our gratitude," he stated and John decided not to bother translating. Sherlock took the box. 

"Diamond cufflinks. All my shirts have buttons," he said. Aloud, of course. The president hesitated, clearly thrown. 

"He means thank you," John lied while he signed harshly. "-Say -thank you" 

"-Why? -He -should -keep -these," Sherlock replied, his fingers contorting around the small box. 

"-This -A-W-K-W-A-R-D," John accused. "-And -he -save -us -from -C-U-R-A-T-O-R," he added and Sherlock turned back to the president. 

"Thank you," he said sincerely. The president smiled briefly and stepped away, still looking uncertain. Sherlock moved immediately for the door, clearly thinking of the favor to Lestrade as firmly repaid and John stopped him with a hand on his arm. Sherlock glanced back at him, looking confused and a camera flashed. Sherlock blinked heavily, actually looking startled for a moment, before he turned to the camera. Another picture flashed and Sherlock was striding for the museum exit. 

_Right._ John followed. 

~~/~~ 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Dedicated to Kerlyssa and Maryemarye, for your lovely reviews. Here's the next chapter, as promised ;)**

"Angelos?" Sherlock suggested as soon as they were out of the building. John glanced at the corner street names, reorienting himself. Oh, they were quite close. And it was Sherlock's favorite in London, he remembered, smiling to himself at the knowledge. 

"Starving," he replied, his smile widening when he detected Sherlock walking faster toward the closest alley, no doubt knowing a shortcut. 

"There are land routes, I suspect," John said as he watched Sherlock pull himself off the ground by a window overhang and start climbing for the roof. He waited for Sherlock to glance down. "-this -not -best way -go -eat", he said and Sherlock smirked. 

"This way go eat, not best," Sherlock corrected, reaching for the fire escape above him. 

"Right. Yes, splendid," John complained as he hoisted himself up after the man. 

~~/~~ 

"-Past -you -child, -your -house, -have -washing -machine?" Sherlock asked as they walked over the long flat rooftop of a department store. 

_Of course._ Sherlock had handed him a list of machine names just that morning. John rubbed a hand over his face, trying to remember what it was like to just talk to the man. Though, given, before they never would have been talking about this at all. 

"-Before -born -H-A-R-R-Y, -no. -My -parents -go -clothing -wash -store -every Sunday. -They -first -met -there -before -marry. -My -mother -say -she -like -time -with -him -alone -in -store -weekly. -Happen -born -H-A-R-R-Y, -buy -washing -machine," John said slowly, watching his hands as he spoke. Sherlock grabbed his arm and guided him around a pipe sticking out of the roof. "-You?" John asked. 

"-Yes. -Basement. -Clothing -dirty, -we -put in -" John caught Sherlock's arm to stop him speaking, not catching a sign. "-C-H-U-T-E," Sherlock spelled out. "-Servants -Pick -up, -wash." 

John tried to wrap his mind around such a life. A home with a laundry shoot and servants and what else? A cook, footmen, a horsedrawn carriage? Still, knowing Sherlock as he was, it was the only childhood that made sense. 

"-You -leave -home, -go -school, -clothing -dirty, -what -do?" John asked and Sherlock blushed. 

"-I -research. -Internet," Sherlock replied. John laughed and threw a leg over the side of the building, knowing there was a handy upside-down dumpster on the other side. They'd used this building to go to Angelos before, during the cabbie case. Sherlock smiled at him approvingly and swung his own leg over beside him.   
Angelos was open, though the man was nowhere in sight, and a short brunette man showed them to a table. The restaurant was mostly empty and John leaned back in his seat comfortably, glad to get out of the March chill. 

"-Past, -you -child, -your -house, -have -dishwasher?" Sherlock asked and John sighed. 

"-Yes," he replied simply. Sherlock nodded. 

"-Me too," 

"-Have -pet?" Sherlock asked and John smiled fondly at the memory and Sherlock asking about it. 

"-Dog. -Name -B-I-S-C-U-I-T. -Happen -my -mother -buy -him, -he -baby. -Harry -remember. -I -no. -Happen -he -die, -I -twelve years old," John replied. 

"-Your -parents -live -now?" Sherlock asked. 

_How does he not already know that?_ John wondered before guessing that the man had deduced it a year before. This is just for practice, he reminded himself. Sherlock hadn't suddenly switched personalities to actually care. 

"-No," he answered. "-Father -die -I -twenty three years old. -Mother -die -four years ago," John replied. 

"-Your -mother -die -how?" Sherlock asked. 

"A-L-C-O-H-O-L-I-C," John replied. God, that had been a horrible time. Sherlock nodded. 

"-That -why -you -go -R-A-M-C," Sherlock said, looking almost smug. John wanted to smack the man. 

"-Part. -Yes," he confirmed. 

"-Your -house -have -basement?" Sherlock asked and John definitely wanted to hit the man. He considered doing it for a moment, before Sherlock raised his eyes expectantly and he realized that Sherlock hadn't taught him the sign for 'Alcoholic'. That might actually be described as sensitive. 

"-Yes," John answered instead. "-Sign -A-L-C-O-H-O-L-I-C, how?" He asked, to check if Sherlock actually knew. Sherlock looked startled for a moment and taught him the sign. John copied it back. 

Huh. 

"-Your -house, -have -basement?" John asked back and Sherlock shook his head, still watching him, apparently confused. 

"-Your -parents, -their -house, -your -sister -live -there?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head. 

"-No. -Mother -sold," he answered. 

"-When?" Sherlock asked. He looked bothered by something. 

"-When -I -R-A-M-C," John replied. 

"-Your -family, -how many -people?" Sherlock asked. John blinked. 

_Huh?_

Sherlock had deduced this the first time he'd met him. 'This is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is' – surely the man could still deduce the same, if he'd forgotten? 

"-H-A-R-R-Y," he spelled out. Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking annoyed. 

"-Not -H-A-R-R-Y," Sherlock replied, growling deep in his throat. John shrugged. 

"-None," he said. Sherlock blinked back at him like he'd said something unfathomable. 

"-Grandfather, -grandmother, -aunt, -uncle, -cousin, -niece, -nephew?" Sherlock listed, his hands flying between the signs. It looked like a family-word lesson on crack. 

"-None," John replied. Sherlock peered at him, apparently trying to decide if he was lying. "-Parents, -both -only -children," he answered. 

"-Cousins?" Sherlock asked. John stared back at him. 

"-Parents -both -" He started repeating and Sherlock growled at him again. 

"Do you know what you'd like to eat?" the waiter asked, reappearing by Sherlock's side. 

"Your grandparents' siblings' children, you idiot. No, I didn't understand you the first time," Sherlock scoffed out, sounding furious. The waiter blinked at them, looking utterly confused. 

"I'll have the -er.. pasta with lemon and wine sauce, please," John ordered. The waiter nodded quickly, clearly slipping back into the established routine as he took his menu. 

"Fish and chips, thank you," Sherlock ordered, holding up his own menu for the man. 

"Sure," the waiter said before walking away. 

"-If -I -have -other -cousins, -I -don't know. -No -I -only -have -H-A-R-R-Y," John replied. "-You -think -that -hard -understand, -why?" 

Sherlock drank his water quickly. 

"-My -grandmother, -this -year -90 years old. -Her -party, -invite -over -hundred -people," he replied. John felt his eyebrows rise. 

"-You -think -come -how many?" 

Sherlock frowned. 

"-How -I -know? -Topic -how -many -family -have," he answered. 

"-Party, -you -go -future?" John asked, expecting a quick scoff at his idiocy in asking. Instead Sherlock smiled fondly. 

"-I -suspect -that -yes." 

John nodded and reached for his drink, grateful for the excuse not to sign. 

He's close to his grandmother, he thought, interested. 

"-Your -parents, -what do?" John asked. Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment, almost vulnerable. 

"My father was a business consultant for failing businesses," he said. Aloud, which surprised John into pausing with his drink only halfway to his mouth. He drank, watching Sherlock as the man thought. "He was not brilliant but was apparently good enough in his position to gain some renown. I was six when he died to it was hardly relevant to me," Sherlock replied. John leaned back when a server came with their food. He'd always thought Mycroft came off as oddly.. protective. A death of a parent would likely do it; though given, it hardly had done for Harry. 

"-So -M-Y-C-R-O-F-T -eleven?" John confirmed as he started in on his food. Sherlock blinked. 

_Isn't the math trivial?_ John mocked himself, as apparently the genius wasn't bothering. 

"Yes. Mycroft says he made some of his most helpful contacts at that funeral," Sherlock replied. John froze, his food halfway to his mouth. That was Mycroft, then. John put down his fork. 

"-I -sorry -your -lose," he signed best he could. 

"Oh, don't be, I never wanted to go into business. Far too social," Sherlock replied and John felt his eyes widen. Sherlock paused, looking uncertain for a moment, clearly picking up on the not good. 

_How do you mess that up?_ John wondered, not for the first time. 

"-Your -mom, -what like?" John asked. 

"-She's in Maudsley," Sherlock answered before taking another bite of his food. John glanced up, knowing the 'mental facility' tag that would go on the end of that title. Sherlock nodded, apparently sensing his understanding. 

"-Past -happen -what?" John asked, glancing over the man. He seemed unaffected by the conversation. 

"She is smarter than either Mycroft or myself but she was significantly less stable. We should likely be grateful for my father's genes, which dulled us enough to be higher functioning," Sherlock replied, continuing to eat. "She was a mathematician and consulted for various thinktanks, though I don't know the subject matter. I'm sure Mycroft could inform you." Sherlock waved his hand away dismissively. 

"-So -money," John deduced. Sherlock nodded. 

"In part, though most of it came from my father. Mycroft suspects that is why he appealed to her," he said. 

_Appealed to her?_ John caught, grimacing. 

"-You -don't think -she -love -him?" he asked. 

"I think nothing, I did not know her before the collapse," Sherlock replied. 

Mycroft's deductions then. Christ. What a family. 

"-C-O-L-L-A-P-S-E?" John asked, unsure whether or not he should press but he wanted to know and Sherlock had yet to ever seem truly bothered by a question unless he was too busy for it. 

"Yes, she rediscovered the P vs. NP problem. Forgot about me for some twelve hours. After that Mycroft insisted on a full time Nanny," Sherlock replied, his face twisting for a moment in what looked like a grimace. 

_P vs. NP? What the fuck could be so important?_ John wanted to ask, though he knew it would be some fancy, hypothetical nothing. He hardly needed the specifics to get the image in his mind of Sherlock stuck in a high chair screaming for half of a day. 

"Jesus," John cursed aloud. "-How -old -you -past?" 

"Mmm. Just turned six, according to Mycroft – who in this case is likely worth trusting. I only remember going down to the Thames to collect samples, this was before I developed the technique around my mind palace." 

John blinked. 

Okay. Or not stuck somewhere screaming.   
~~/~~ 

"-S-A-M-P-L-E-S. -You -past -six -years -old," John signed fervently. Surprised by the age, then? 

"I started my work studying water ecosystems' dependence on saline levels that day, though of course at the time I only knew it as my 'dead fish' project," Sherlock replied. 

"-Dead -fish?" John signed and Sherlock felt himself smile at the memory of his first nanny's very quick resignation. John smiled back and Sherlock felt his heartrate accelerate again – excited again, then. He suppressed it. 

"I added different levels of salt to separate fish tanks to determine their survival points," Sherlock explained. 

"-Six years old," John repeated, looking dumbfounded. "-Your -N-A-N-N-Y -love -that -yes?" 

"Well, the first three didn't, no, but the experiment was completed by the fourth so it didn't much matter," Sherlock replied, thrilled to see John's mouth quirk up in a laugh. 

"Right," John mouthed and Sherlock wished he could hear it. 

_Why?_ Sherlock stopped eating, baffled by his last thought. That made no sense. He had all the information in the world; John's ASL had improved – ghastly though it was. They were talking about set subjects, yes, but communication was possible given the need. He was lacking more social cues than usual but they already tended to be useless due to too many potential causes. Why did he want to hear John's voice? What more could it add? 

Sherlock tore his eyes from John's face, aware he'd been close to that 'no more than 8 seconds of visual contact' social code. 

"There's a man over there. I can't tell if he's attempting an affair for the first time or if he's lost his ring and hasn't yet told his wife," Sherlock said, hoping it would distract John enough that he wouldn't notice the awkwardness. Likely not necessary – John barely noticed anything regardless – but he lost nothing for ensuring it. 

John had not changed at all since the explosion; he needed no further information about the man. He was a reserved, brave man with a quiet wit and an uncanny ability to accept things at face value. Being deaf was rapidly showing itself to be a net positive. And yet every time he thought of never having his hearing return he felt a strange pang in his chest... something bothered him about it. He wanted to hear John's voice like he wanted to hear his violin again. There was something pleasant about it. Sherlock started through every other voice he knew; was it voices in general he missed? 

"-His -ring, -he lost," John replied. Sherlock glanced up at the man's face, trying to catch up. 

"What?" he asked. 

"-Man -there. -Woman -come -him. -He -red," John replied. Sherlock followed his gaze to the man by the bar, rejecting the flirtation of an American -or Canadian, though significantly less likely - stewardess. Ah, yes, clearly. "-You -really -think -about -what?" John asked. Well. He'd royally cocked that one up. Sherlock shook his head. He desperately needed a case; he was officially running himself in circles. 

"-True -false -tests -or -many -choice, -you -prefer -which?" Sherlock asked instead. John blinked rapidly, obviously having missed it. He didn't handle change of context well – symptom of a foreign speaker. Sherlock moved to repeat the question, slower. 

~~/~~ 

_This definitely looked like a date,_ John thought as he went back to his food. It was just a date where he was allowed to mention the fact that he'd had a patient throw up all over his shoes only to apologize for the color that day and get stories in return that measured out mice in gallons. 

"I buy you free dessert to share, on the house," Angelo announced when they were finished. He took their plates, not waiting for a response and John translated. 

"My preference is apple tart, then chocolate brownie, then gelado," Sherlock announced. 

"-Me, -brown -apple -other -one," John replied. 

"We'll have the brownie," Sherlock told Angelo and the man clapped his hands. 

"You have it, first thing," he said, winking at John. 

"Thank you," Sherlock answered and the man rushed off. 

"-Thank you," John said, smiling at the man. 

"You're welcome," Sherlock answered easily, his attention shifting back around the room again. "The man in the hideous yellow shirt. Tell me what you see," he ordered. 

~~/~~ 

His heart rate started increasing while they shared the dessert and worsened while John paid the bill. He got out to the taxi and took his pulse again, almost cursing at the beating of it. What the hell? 

He grabbed John's arm after the man followed him into the taxi and took his pulse, ignoring John's initial tug away from him. It was a steady 72 bpm, only a few bpm over his base line; unaffected. He took his own again and it had quickened yet again. Sherlock leaned back in the taxi cab and closed his eyes, shutting out the world. 

~~/~~ 

They got back to the apartment and John turned on the television, demanding a break before Sherlock got the chance to accost him with the latest pile of dictionary words to add to the pile of papers growing by the ugly standing lamp behind the couch. 

"What's the point, John?" Sherlock demanded when John found something suitably brainless to watch. Sherlock stalked across the room to pick up his violin and threw himself down into his chair. Of course. John switched the T.V's captioning on; he'd gotten good at that since he'd moved in. Sherlock started to play and John waited until the man had looked away before he muted the box, wanting to hear the man without its noise. 

~~/~~ 

He could never do Bach's violin concertos alone. Still, Sherlock did his best, smiling when he saw John rest his head back on the chair and close his eyes; he was usually better at pretending not to listen. Still, Sherlock was grateful for it – it allowed an exception to the normal 8 second maximum of looking at John and trying to figure out what the hell was going on his head. 

There wasn't much question about it. Sherlock grimaced, snarling silently and forcing himself to keep on with the concerto. John would notice the change. 

If it were a medical condition Sherlock would have no doubt of it and he must apply the same deductive rigor to his symptoms. He had a crush on John Watson. Sherlock grimaced at himself and tilted his body up to stare at the ceiling while he played. He ticked every damn box of the symptoms he'd heard described. He wanted to hear all about the man, wanted John to like him and think him special and treat him differently than everyone else. Wanted John to love him more than anything else in the world, wanted to touch John's hands, run his hands down his chest. Sherlock felt a nervous, excited feeling in his chest run down to twinge at his groin and scoffed, utterly exasperated with himself. 

He let his violin shriek to a halt and tossed it gently on the chair where he knew it would land safely. He climbed over the coffee table to throw himself on the couch. This was humiliating and he just had to pray the man didn't realize. Sherlock blushed at the very thought and turned into the couch again, his arousal thankfully dying as swiftly as it'd grown. 

~~/~~ 

"-Don't," John ordered, pulling himself out of the stack of ASL words on his lap when he saw Sherlock walking toward the bathroom with a crate of jars of tomato paste and a can opener. Sherlock stopped. 

"Why?" he demanded. 

"-I -want -shower -today," John answered. Sherlock sighed. 

"Showering is dull," he complained. 

"-Yes, -and -necessary," John replied. 

"-I'll clean it up, after," Sherlock promised, sounding utterly put out and John nodded. 

"-Good. -Thank you. -You need -case," he said, throwing his pile of ASL sheets onto the table in front of him and reaching for the newspaper. It'd been more than a week since Sherlock had solved a case and if it went any longer Sherlock was going to drive him spare, if the sheets of anatomy terms didn't do it first. 

John scoured the newspaper twice over but there was nothing. He grabbed the top sheet of the stack of vocabulary next to his desk and started on it – deciding if nothing else, he'd change theme. 

Furniture names. Wonderful. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock buried himself in his experiments, praying for a case that would free him from his own mind. He was grinding himself to pieces trying not to think about John as the man moved about the kitchen making breakfast. Sherlock checked on his ribbons one by one, carefully memorizing the exact color shift in dye after weeks of sitting in the stagnant water of the Thames. 

"-These -eggs, -clean?" John asked and Sherlock shook his head. 

"No, I injected them with sulphate," Sherlock replied and saw out of the corner of his eye as John's jaw set, his weight shifting until he was balanced in something resembling military attention. Annoyed, his mind supplied immediately. He'd determined that move's meaning over the first week he'd known the man and it'd yet to be wrong. "I left a stickie," Sherlock defended. 

John opened the package and presumably found his note, as his face cleared. He said something aloud Sherlock couldn't read and closed the carton again. 

"-Thanks," he said before putting the eggs back in the fridge. 

"The sausage should be fine by now," Sherlock offered, opening the next jar though he'd inspected it before. Bizarre though it was, John wouldn't notice. 

He saw a hand placed by the base of the jar, sitting just into his periphery vision. John had started doing that over the last week; presumably an invented way to get his attention without being rude. Sherlock didn't know why it would be any less distracting than any other means but still, it meant he had an excuse to touch the man and he was apparently exactly pathetic enough to take it. 

Except this time, when it would be too obviously unnecessary. Sherlock made himself look up from the jar. 

"-Should -fine? -Past -happen -what?" John asked. Ah. 

"Oh, I froze it solid for two months to give the right structure for frozen intestinal tract but Molly had an actual tract for me before it became necessary," Sherlock replied. John swallowed heavily -disgusted or aroused, given his usual reactions. Disgusted, probably. "It should be thawed by now," he added. 

"-Yes, -right," John said and Sherlock forced himself to look at the jars again, feeling a blush rise senselessly up his neck into his cheeks. This was horrible. 

~~/~~ 

John didn't think he'd ever been as grateful to hear Lestrade shout up the stairs. He dropped the fourth sheet of business terms, his brain buzzing, and held a hand out across his desk to where Sherlock was sitting. Sherlock didn't even glance at it but John waited, going over the words in his mind. Finally Sherlock touched his hand, apparently having found a good place in his research into God-knew-what to stop. Sherlock's fingers were warm covering his own and John felt an urge to flip his palm, feel the strength of the hand in his. He pulled away, moving to point to the door instead where he heard Lestrade pounding up the steps. 

"-L-E-S-T-R-A-D-E," he signed and Sherlock nodded. 

"What's the case?" he demanded before Lestrade had gotten a full step inside. 

"A banker, he's been kidnapped. We just got the note," Lestrade said to John. 

Talk to him, John thought, knowing it was going to annoy his flatmate. 

"-Banker. -Caught, -we -have -note. -Before -You -knew?" John asked, flummoxed as he held up the oddly pertinent business words he'd been learning. Sherlock just looked confused. 

_Of course not, he probably gave me those words three weeks ago._

"-Nevermind," John said. Sherlock nodded and held out a hand to Lestrade, his eyes going back to his computer screen. Lestrade walked forward and placed the note in his hand, apparently understanding. Sherlock pulled his eyes away from the screen again to focus on the slip of white paper in his hand, feeling it between his fingers and rubbing it on his cheek before he even seemed to bother reading it. 

"We'll take the case," he pronounced, standing. John nodded and followed suit, moving to get his coat, even if it was three weeks into March. 

~~/~~ 


	8. Chapter 8

"-My -family -and -I -together -again. -We -have -one -person -must -thank. -You, -no -shite," John translated. He thought there were far more cameras pointed at him signing than the banker talking. For once he was grateful no one would be able to understand him. The banker's child handed Sherlock a small box. Sherlock shook it lightly. 

"Tie pin, I don't wear ties," he commented. Quietly, at least, and facing away from the boy. 

"-Quiet," John replied. 

"Angelos?" the genius suggested, apparently forgetting about the mass of cameras and onlookers still expecting them to be proud of their great deductive achievement. Sherlock was right on this one; the police had thoroughly cocked it up. The man should never have been missing for a week in the first place. Hell, Sherlock hadn't even had to go in after the banker, he'd just lowered the man a damn lockpick and gun and the banker had gotten out on his own. 

John glanced over the local streets, wondering which alley Sherlock would have them leaping over within the next fifteen minutes. 

"-Exist -land -routes," he answered. Sherlock grinned. 

Still, Sherlock had barely moved a foot away from the banker before the paparazzi swarmed, pressing closer and snapping pictures until John felt himself shifting on his feet, moving his hand closer to his gun. 

"Sherlock! Sherlock, how long have you loved your flatmate?" 

"How long have you been together?" 

"When's your anniversary?" 

They shouted and John shifted to keep Sherlock slightly behind him. The banker looked at them, utterly overwhelmed and ushered his family back into the house. Wise man. 

"John! Why did you learn sign language?" A male reporter demanded, shoving his mic into John's face. Apparently he was the brightest in the bunch, then, having figured out that the fact that Sherlock was deaf meant that he _couldn't hear._

"Excuse me," John replied simply, pushing forward. 

"You wouldn't do it for just a friend, would you?" the man asked, only barely stepping back. 

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, walking forward, cocking his head, and John wanted to _shoot_ the reporter. He made himself turn to face Sherlock easily, nothing to hide, but the genius wasn't paying attention to him at all. Sherlock pushed his face into the reporter's face, his eyes piercing, instantly _fascinated._ "People keep saying that, 'friends don't learn sign language. Why not?" 

The reporter pulled back, obviously startled. 

"Jesus, personal space" the man cursed, backing up again as Sherlock searched his face for an answer. 

Sherlock cursed under his breath again and backed off, apparently having not found his answer. 

_Good._

John pushed forward again, toward the street and the press followed them. Still, Sherlock was with him. John pressed forward again. This was getting insane. 

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked and John nodded. 

"-Lead -way," he said and Sherlock pushed through the crowd, taking off at a sprint when he'd gotten out of it. John had to force himself not to punch the idiots that got in his way as he followed. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock was silent during the meal. Strangely so, given their experiment. He asked John a series of inane questions and John obeyed the command to practice, allowing the man his space. Sherlock said nothing in return but to correct his signs and John ate his dinner, wishing the man would get over it. 

_Fucking reporter,_ he cursed, though he knew Sherlock would have caught wind of it eventually. They'd barely been able to walk into a room without someone wondering aloud why John bothered. Even without that, Sherlock would have picked up on something eventually; John had long since accepted that there was nothing you could hide from the man. 

Sherlock stayed silent in the cab ride home and John let them into their flat, watching as Sherlock threw himself down on the couch to think. He moved to put the kettle on, guessing he was in for yet another night of vocabulary memorization. 

~~/~~ 

That was four times he'd been told that friends didn't learn ASL for each other – and from three sources now – a solid enough basis to presume it held some truth, although the sources were interconnected and one of them was Donovan so it was hardly _that_ telling. 

There was a good possibility that it was common knowledge that friends didn't often learn a foreign language for each other. Which was a strange statement, given that people often learned foreign languages despite knowing no one in the field at all -look at Latin, clearly. Perhaps that was outlying data, however, and usually it was 'wife' or 'child' as Lestrade had claimed. 

Neither of which were true in his case, that was fair, which apparently made them an outlying case enough that even Lestrade came down off his victory high to notice it. He needed more data and it was incalculable without deafening a significant proportion of the British population. Mycroft would be annoyed, surely, which would be fun but still, not worth doing. So he needed to rely on anecdotes and the average mind's social intuition. Dull. John was currently putting the kettle on to boil. Sherlock sat up and moved quietly after the man, needing more data. 

It was just like any other day, no evidence at all that John was hiding anything, but Sherlock had to wonder -it'd been asked too often to ignore -why did John learn sign language? It'd made sense a month before, when learning was reading down a list of sign diagrams, checking their correct usage with online videos, memorizing two syntax texts and spending a night carefully weaving it all together into a language he could think in. He'd do that to hear Lestrade, even, in case it ever became actually important what the man had to say – not terribly likely but the best case scenario meant his work continued unaltered and the worst case scenario was two wasted evenings, a fairly simple decision to weigh. 

That was not the case for John. Learning was _grueling_ for the man – that much was obvious. It was going to take over a year to be truly communicable -calculating in the likelihood of John's patience with the project wearing thin – and John seemed to know it. He sighed with frustration every time he looked at the pile of dictionary words Sherlock had chosen for him, and yet he continued to slog through it, slow and unfalteringly steady. But _why?_ Either he enjoyed doing it, despite all evidence from how much he complained about it or he had an external motivator. 

_Maybe he liked the challenge?_

"Do you enjoy learning?" Sherlock asked. John froze, his back tensing and he turned around looking wary. 

_Why wary? ..Four options: he sees something behind me, he just thought of something disconcerting, he is uncomfortable with the question, something about how I asked was disconcerting._ Sherlock had too many ideas branching off that to count. Useless. He needed more data. 

"-You ask me -I -learn -sign why?," John guessed and Sherlock nodded. The man leaned back on the countertop behind him and crossed his arms, looking interested by the question. 

_Not wary anymore. Why?_

"-Sometimes. -Past -I -like -school -medical. -I -like -learn -P-R-A-C-T-I-C-A-L -thing. -Learn -how -do -new -thing. -Now? -No, -not often," John replied. 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, before he could stop himself. Why was he interested? That was irrelevant, it only mattered if John liked learning sign language now, not why he changed from who he used to be. He changed, it was done, how could the reason be possibly relevant? But still, he wanted to know. 

John smiled at him slightly, like he'd done something right, and Sherlock smiled back, pleasure jolting through him at the sight. 

_Pathetic,_ he scowled at himself. 

"-I -found -something -better. -Live -faster, -harder, -don't feel -old. -I -found -I -physical -man. -I don't like -move -slow, -sit, -live -with -brain," John replied, resting more of his weight on the counter edge. 

"-So -you -don't like -learn -sign," Sherlock concluded, checking with the man. John shook his head and shrugged. 

"-It -hard. -I -like -physical -hard -with -easy -mind," John replied, before smiling slightly. "-I -know. -You -don't like -anything -easy." 

"-Easy -boring," Sherlock replied, trying to figure out what could be pleasurable about something that had no content. John shrugged again. 

"-Me? -No," he said. 

"-You -learn -sign -for what?" he asked and John blew out a breath. 

"-I -want -talk with -you," he said, shrugging easily. There was no discernible sign of deception, Sherlock knew it even as he glanced over the man – John was a shockingly obvious liar. So no, the man was being honest, as always. 

"-Why not -rely on -lipreading?" Sherlock asked. John didn't know the word 'lipread' as far as he knew, but he hoped – Sherlock felt a grin stretch across his face when he saw John's eyes light up and he signed back. 

"-Read-speech?" 

Sherlock nodded. John blushed slightly and Sherlock fought not to lean forward, not to show any further sign of interest. The man did not blush often. 

"-Want -you -speak -normal," he said. Sherlock had to focus not to allow his shoulders to sink in disappointment. _Bland._

"And it's worth a year of study?" Sherlock pressed. "Obnoxious, grueling study you're not even all that interested in?" 

"Yes," John said simply, his blush dying, "obviously." 

_Fair._

God, emotions were infuriating. They didn't make _sense._

"I am neither your wife nor your child," Sherlock pressed. John blinked rapidly. 

"-Thank god -you -inform -me. -I -about -mess up -that -once or -twice," he joked. Sherlock shook his head, not the _point._ Why had the man blushed? 

"Then why?" 

John shrugged again. 

"-You -my -friend," he repeated. 

_No, Lestrade and Donovan were both convinced that that wasn't enough. The whole of Scotland Yard was looking at you strangely during the painting case. Your emotions don't always tend to follow the common path but you accept that seemingly without any thought to shame; none of this explains why you blushed._

Sherlock stepped forward so the overhead light wasn't blinding him and blocking his sight of the man. 

"And that's enough?" he pressed. 

John's pupils widened. Just a bit, hardly noticeable at all, but he wasn't the one who'd moved out of the way of the light. He hadn't moved at all, in fact. He remained as ever still against the counter top, but his eyes had darted over Sherlock's body, in just a flash, looking almost wary for a second even as his body read calm and collected and unfazed as ever. It was a normal reaction to Sherlock being close by, he'd always seen it as yet more evidence of the war, a body alert to danger, but John didn't have any reason to fear him. Four options for dilator pupillae stimulation – change in light, adrenaline, arousal, or drugs. The light hadn't changed; Drugs were out, John had been in his sight all day and he'd have noticed the symptoms of longer lasting drugs before this. No, it was adrenaline or arousal. 

Curious, Sherlock took another step forward, gazing into the man's eyes and hoping that if he was wrong, John would take it as an attempt at lipreading. 

John's throat moved, like he was clearing it or coughing quietly and the man turned away to fuss with the kettle, though it clearly hadn't screamed. There was only a slight sign of steam yet. 

_Turn back,_ Sherlock wanted to growl. He had an experiment to perform and he knew there were boundaries. He couldn't walk up and just press himself against the man -he'd lose a friend for sure. He couldn't get too close, but he needed to _know._

It seemed impossible that John could keep such a thing from him for so long, there was almost no way for it. The man had lived with him, walked around in nothing but a towel around him, and he'd picked up on every detail, on John's self-consciousness about his scar, John's determination not to let it bug him, John's adjustment to him seeing it. That surely was all there was to be found, in those moments. What more could there be? How would he have missed it for more than a year? 

John pulled the steaming kettle off the stove and Sherlock glanced over his back, though there was no clue there. The man's muscles tightened and stretched beneath the jumper, giving no evidence of their scarring, as he poured them both a cup. John turned back, mugs in his hands and Sherlock knew that the moment had gone -if it'd ever been there at all. The man looked steadily back at him, looking only slightly curious and Sherlock had to step back, not sure where the line of personal space was supposed to be. 

This was driving him _insane._ Sherlock groaned and moved for the other room. He'd make his violin _screech._ This was horrible. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock had barely gotten through a half hour of the knife-on-chalkboard sound before he broke. This was _horrible._ He went from focusing on John's hair to his chest to his hands to his crotch, trying desperately to find some sign of what had seemed to be true, for just that moment – that John was attracted to him, potentially always had been and _damn him_ he'd missed it for so long. 

It was far more likely he was making it up. He'd begun to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts, as he'd seen done in insensible minds hundreds of times before. And _God_ he'd become one of them as soon as John had shown him the least bit of interest, by doing nothing but learning a damn language. Which really would never have been as difficult if the man weren't so dim about it in the first place. Emotions were antagonistic to clear reasoning and he was proving it to himself at every opportunity. John turned the page of his book and Sherlock noticed his hands again – as if he didn't already know their every detail. 

Sherlock stood up from his chair and went for his coat. He had to get out of here. 

"-See -you -after -" Sherlock walked past the man, losing the rest of his sentence. He slammed the door on the way out and wished for a moment he could have heard it. There wasn't any satisfaction in it otherwise. Another mark against remaining deaf, though it was certainly starting to look like he wouldn't have much choice on the matter. 

~~/~~ 

"Give. me. a. case," Sherlock hissed, leaning into Lestrade's desk. The man blinked up at him, his eyebrows rising as he spoke. 

"Bye/die/fie/guy/hi/high/I/Lie/my/pie/rye/sigh/tie /why don't/won't ave/have anything." 

It ended with 'don't have anything' or 'won't have anything' and needed a subject – so "I don't/won't have anything' or 'guy won't have anything'. He only knew one 'Guy' and the man had moved to Germany three years before. God, he'd forgotten how uselessly time consuming reading lips was. 

"Find something," Sherlock ordered and pointed to the pen on the man's desk. "And write down your answers. Reading lips is _tedious._ " Lestrade rolled his eyes and reached for a pad of paper. "And don't say you don't have anything. I don't care, give me something boring but give me work," he added. Lestrade glanced at him and scratched out what he was writing to start again. 

**We have one case but we've already brought the man in** , Sherlock read upside down as Lestrade wrote it out. He hissed in annoyance. He'd seen the man on the way in. **Wrong man?** Lestrade asked, looking concerned. 

"No, right one. That one's closed. I need work," Sherlock growled out. The man was wasting his time; he couldn't just _stand_ there. 

**John's blog? Don't you always have pending requests?** Lestrade wrote, apparently smart enough to realize not to bother turning the pad around. Sherlock grimaced. He didn't want John involved. Lestrade was watching him, looking concerned. 

**Right. You okay?** He wrote and Sherlock sneered. The D.I's mouth quirked slightly – sympathy? Resignation? Amusement? It wasn't clear – and pointed to a cabinet at the side of his office. 

**Interpol's Most Wanted, cold cases. There's a whole room of lesser cases downstairs,** Lestrade wrote. Sherlock nodded and the D.I pulled a key from his desk and threw it at him. Sherlock started for the case, glad the cabinet was in the warmer office rather than the file room downstairs. 

Peter Ricolleti, 43 years old in 2009, wanted for drug possession, trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon, weapon violation, domestic abuse, attempted murder, murder. 

And someone actually competent had had control over the photographs at the crime scenes. 

"Someone has a club foot," Sherlock muttered to himself, looking at the bloody footprints. "I need the files of every officer who worked this case." 

He saw movement out of the side of his eye and saw Lestrade squat down beside him to look over the file he'd spread out over the floor. He got up again, quickly – hopefully to actually do something useful. 

~~/~~ 

Doing this alone was _boring,_ Sherlock thought, glancing over the ancient crime scene. It was just an alley now. He needed to sweep around, reconstructing the story, but he'd be talking to _nothing._ Lestrade didn't have the time for cold cases. He should have brought the skull. Sherlock blinked. He wasn't even fully sure where the skull was, now. He'd managed to delete it. Sherlock grabbed his phone. 

**7 W. Chesterton, Alley between restaurant and Tescos. Bring skull. S.H**

~~/~~ 

John left work fifteen minutes early, knowing he was asking to get fired. Still, the museum and the banker had paid them royally – part of him was still oggling over a check for £50,000 quid. So really, he was just slowly shifting to a self employed partnership with Sherlock. That didn't sound nearly as insane. 

John grabbed the skull from its place beneath the coffee table and started for the door to catch yet another cab. 

_Business expenses,_ he reminded himself. He just wished Sherlock had actually given him time to deposit the check first. 

"-Why?"He asked as he approached Sherlock. The man didn't answer, returning to peering behind a dumpster in the small alley. John caught up to him and tapped his shoulder, lifting the skull to clarify his question and Sherlock waved a hand at him casually. 

"In case it was impossible to talk to you," Sherlock replied, bouncing down the alley way to stand in front of him. Right. What the devil? 

"-We -finish -do -this -often," John argued, confused. Why would Sherlock not be able to talk to him? John peered at the man. Sherlock was _blushing._

"Okay, so we have a murder scene," Sherlock started, throwing his hands wide to indicate the alley. "It was clean, neat. Killed the man, threw him into dumpster, cleaned the weapon and threw it in too. Threw a big piece of pork over the bloodstain to reassure people; it was thrown out later by the restaurant to our right and a new kitchen aid was fired for leaving it there. The scene went unremarked upon for two full days until the body was found in the dumpster. It'd rotted beyond the point of most recognition, but was identified as Mr. Clarence Brown," Sherlock recounted. 

"-We -solve -cold -cases -why?" John asked, the skull waving in his hands. Sherlock tossed his head. 

"Not relevant," the genius stated, crouching at the ground. John put the skull down, feeling ridiculous. And Sherlock looked horribly, horribly uncomfortable, staring at the dumpster like it was about to become his salvation. 

"-Okay, -okay, -we -solve -case. -Garbage -box -there -when -body -put in it -or -finish -move?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. 

"Good thought but no, it was there. And it's been too many years for any old materials to still be under there. Rain water for years -impossible," Sherlock muttered. John shook his head. 

"-Idea," he said and laid onto the ground. He knew Sherlock was watching him but still he pushed himself up to the dumpster, doing his best to see beneath. "-Light?" he asked. It felt strange, signing on his back, like all the signs suddenly had to be flipped. He heard Sherlock opening his toolkit, though, so at least he'd been understood. And he hadn't had to open his mouth while lying beneath a dumpster that had once held a rotting corpse so really he was starting to see Sherlock's point about the benefits of sign language. 

He felt a light placed onto his chest and nodded gratefully, fumbling with it until he got the light shining onto the wheels of the dumpster. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock watched the edge of John's jumper ride up and hated himself. It was worse now when he knew what he wanted from the man. And why the hell had his transport decided to react so strongly to the one man who could get beyond tolerating him, the man who _liked_ him, so his damn _mind_ was engaged in the attraction. It was brutal. His own mind had turned against itself. Sherlock made himself look away. Still, Johns thought was a good one. Blood on the wheels could have been rolled onto the underside of the caster, pulled high enough to be out of the rain for all but a serious flood. There was a chance. 

John pushed himself away from the dumpster, the muscles in his arms tensing. He shook his head and slid himself over on the filthy ground to look at the next wheel. 

_Am I allowed to watch?_ Sherlock wondered, walking away to inspect the rest of the alley again. He'd been more comfortable and less aroused by the woman standing utterly naked in front of him than with the line of hard muscle at John's stomach. At least with Irene Adler the boundaries had been clear; she'd have taken anything he'd have given her. Why couldn't he have been attracted to _her,_ if his damn body had been so insistent on flooding him with sexual feeling? That at least wouldn't have been so distracting. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. John shook his head. Nothing. Not surprising. 

"Shall we? There are five other scenes," Sherlock invited. 

~~/~~ 

They spent the day chasing ghosts. John gratefully climbed into the cab after Sherlock, knowing they were headed home. Something had changed between them, he could feel it. It'd been bothering him all day as he'd followed behind Sherlock, trying to be useful as the man searched for clues. They hadn't found anything, at least as far as John had seen and Sherlock was too quiet now for a genius with nothing to think about. 

John kept his face turned toward the window, uncomfortable in a routine they'd shared dozens of times before. It was too dark out for privacy; he could see Sherlock's face reflected perfectly back at him. The man was staring at him. Sherlock glanced away immediately and John sighed. What the devil was going on? 

He'd just ride it out, he figured. Sherlock moods always passed eventually. 

~~/~~ 

He couldn't _think._ Sherlock growled to himself, suddenly feeling confined in the cab. He kept his hands balled on his lap, unsure where to put them. He'd barely been able to pay attention to their crime scenes while he was there. But of course he knew where John was without being able to hear him. Useless. 

Sherlock wanted to drive his palms into his eyes but John would notice and start asking questions. No, he had to act normally, focus on the _work._ John shifted on his seat and Sherlock noticed. God, he wanted to scream with frustration. This was _horrible._

They got home and Sherlock buried himself in the case file. John started moving about the kitchen -cooking dinner, probably – and Sherlock moved all of his piles into the living room to spread them over the floor. He needed space. 

He'd barely gotten himself to focus long enough to name all of the possible places Ricolleti could have gotten a dead pig without having had to take it on the tube when John flashed the lights. He looked up to see the man holding a small pot. 

He asked something one handed. One hand sliding forward over the hand holding the pot away from his body. Nice, clean, material, Sherlock's mind filled with possibilities – if John had meant the hand to go the other direction – he made that mistake sometimes – slow, long, how long, nightly – too many options if he'd meant to do it twice. John did the motion again – same direction, mistake less likely – and mouthed something. 

"Clean/glean/lean/spleen," Clean – correlation on both gestures. Ah. 

"Yes," Sherlock answered, returning to his case file. How had he made so little progress? _Damn it._ He wanted John to go away and leave him alone so he could _think_ again. His mind was stagnating. 

~~/~~ 

John made dinner, carefully not thinking about the potential past lives of his ingredients. He was good at that now. He knew better than to make anything for Sherlock; the detective's mood was darkening by the minute. The man was practically vibrating with excess energy, crouched on the floor in an anxious, impatient way he never was with his work. There was no way the man would eat. 

"How long has Harry been drinking?" Sherlock snarled without looking up from the case file. John paused from sliding his food onto a plate. Right. One of those nights, then. 

"-I -don't talk -about -that -casual," John replied seriously. 

"You need to talk about something. If you don't learn ASL what use will you be? Unless you think I need another shadow, which seems to be beyond even your intellect. So talk. Five years, six? She must not have been drinking before you left for the war or you'd hardly have gone, problems enough at home you shouldn't have needed to find a way to seek them out," Sherlock snarled. 

Lovely. One of those moods. And hadn't that come from nowhere. 

"-Sod off," John replied, taking his plate to the kitchen table and sitting down at his chair. Two new piles of ASL/BSL mixtures were waiting for him and he snarled. Bugger that. 

Well, that was unpleasant, he thought, staring at the wall. Not as bad as the 'don't have friends' moment, at least he knew Sherlock went for cruelty when he was getting overly emotional about something and wanted to be alone. 

_Overly emotional about what?_ He wondered. 

John snarfed his food, making his decision. If there was ever a reason pubs existed, this was it. He got back into the living room and found Sherlock still glowering at the case file. He tapped on the man's shoulder and Sherlock turned, glaring daggers into him. 

"-Say -quote -I -want -to -be -alone," John ordered. 

"What?" Sherlock snapped. 

"-Say it," John ordered again. 

"I want to be alone," Sherlock stated and John backed off, his hands in the air in surrender for a moment. 

"-There. -you -have -it," he said, grabbing his coat from his chair and heading for the stairs. 

~~/~~ 

John was halfway through his third beer when he felt a warm tap on his shoulder. 

_Good,_ he thought, turning. A woman was leaning on his hip, a smile waiting for him and John felt his own start to falter. 

"Hoping for someone else?" the stranger teased, obviously not believing it. 

_Yes,_ John thought, not sure what to say. Which, given, was fairly rare with a beautiful woman. 

"John Watson," he stalled, holding out his hand. 

"Sandra Laney," she replied and he belatedly picked up on the accent. American, then. 

"Where are you from?" he asked, automatically leaning back on the bar as he tried to figure out why, precisely, he was uninterested. He scanned her body quickly, wondering if he was picking up on danger but there was no sign of a weapon and she wasn't coming off as aggressive or nervous at all. He was just..not interested. 

"Sacramento, United States," she replied and John smiled. 

"I'd thought so. How long have you been in England?" 

Christ, it was strange to speak aloud outside of work. The woman smiled and leaned in a little closer. Crap. He'd seemed interested. John felt his eyes widen as he saw Sherlock walk into the bar behind the woman. The man paused in the doorway and glanced around. He had that _lost_ expression again, the one that said he cared and had no idea why. 

"Two years last January. I moved here for work," the woman said and paused, inviting him to ask what she did. Sherlock's eyes found him and scanned the woman, only to scowl at her. 

"-Over -four -cats," Sherlock stated, walking toward them. 

"Five cats?" John mumbled to himself, not quite believing it. 

"Sorry?" the woman asked, sounding affronted. Sherlock strode up to them and stepped in front of John, his arse almost scraping against John's knee as he pressed into the tight space to glare at the stranger. 

"Go away," he ordered and the woman stared, looking utterly flummoxed before her eyes widened, glancing between them with something like understanding. 

"I'm barking up the wrong tree, aren't I?" she asked Sherlock ruefully but John couldn't see Sherlock's expression. 

"Whatever you just said, likely yes," Sherlock growled. John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him out of the way of his vision. Sherlock let him, stepping aside, but didn't turn to face him. 

"Whatever I said? Is 'bark up the wrong tree' an Americanism?" she asked. 

"No," John barely made out before Sherlock had turned to him, looking confused. 

"Why is she not going?" he demanded. 

"-She -ask -why -you -don't know -what -she -say," John replied. 

"Ooooh," the woman said, glancing between them again. "Got it." 

"-She -understand -now," John added and Sherlock glared at him. John glared back. 

"-Fuck off -S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K," John ordered. 

"Well, on that note, I'm gunna go," she said, sliding off of the bar stool slowly. John nodded, breaking his glaring contest with Sherlock to nod at the woman. 

"Sorry about that," he said and she held up her hands. 

"No, no, I'm perfectly happy to be uninvolved in a marital squabble," she said, backing away. 

"-You -arse," John signed angrily. 

"-I -don't know -her. -She -care -what -I -say -why?" Sherlock asked, finally turning to face him. He didn't look repentant at all. 

That wasn't actually the arse move he was talking about but alright, he'd go with it. 

"-She -talk -with -me. -You -know -interrupt -arse -move," John argued. Sherlock flicked his eyes at the retreating woman and turned back. 

"-I -need -talk to you," he replied strongly. 

"Oh dude, look," John heard a plastered tourist drawl from behind him. "Angry deaf." John ignored him. 

"-I -understand -you -don't care -what -other -people -think -but, -cruel -with -no -reason -because -you -think -you -want -leave -alone, -not same," John argued. 

_Alright, when did this become about the kitchen?_ John wondered, just as Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, evidently confused as well. 

"-You -angry -because -woman -or -kitchen, which?" Sherlock asked. 

"-Kitchen. -Woman -not important," John replied, waving a hand in the woman's direction. "-But -fuck you -don't -use -my -sister -drinking. -You -want -me -leave -just -fucking -say," John signed, wishing to _hell_ he could just shout. He hadn't been that mad a beer ago. Sherlock nodded, looking worried. 

"Woah, really angry sign language is hilarious, man," another young twerp answered. 

"-And -you -know -perfect -I -not -learn -sign -so -useful. -Crime -scene? You -don't need -doctor. -You -know -time -death -yourself. -You -can -learn -read -lips. I -learn -talk with you -why? -I -want -friend -talk with me -easy. -Fuck -your -work. -You -care -about -me -because -I -useful? -That -mean -you -don't care. -You -care about -work. -You -must -choose. -You -only -care -I -learn -ASL -help -your -work, -I -go," John ranted. 

John forced himself to stop signing. Well, hell. He wasn't even that angry. And now he'd trapped himself. Now the man would hide in his shell and say something shitty and he needed this friendship to continue unaltered. What the hell would he be without it? He'd have shot himself by now without Sherlock. His leaving was an obvious bluff if he'd ever heard one. 

Sherlock didn't seem to think so. The man stood stock still, frozen in place in the middle of the bar, his eyes darting about wildly, his body too stiff and tangibly unhappy. 

"Did you get a video of that?" the drunkards joked. John whirled. 

"Shut the fuck up," John ordered. The kids gaped at him – obviously students, mostly underage. 

"You're not deaf," one said dumbly. 

"Yes, brilliant deduction, thank you," John snarled. And hell, he'd sounded like Sherlock. John turned back to the man, who was currently throwing back the rest of his beer. John gaped; he'd never seen the man drink before. 

"John," he started, swallowing heavily. 

"-Yes, -nevermind. -I -lie. -I -drunk -and -tired -and -R-A-N-T-I-N-G. -I -stay -regardless," John apologized, throwing money for his tab onto the bar. Well, hell, he was an idiot. He started for the door, feeling ten times the fool. 

He felt a warm hand grab his shoulder firmly and he was twisted to face Sherlock again. The man looked pensive, too pensive. 

_Well, hell._

"Why?" Sherlock asked, peering into his face. 

_He knows._ John pulled his arm free gently and stepped back. 

"-Because -I -pathetic. -Everyone -else -seems -boring -and -I -fucking -need -life -not -boring," John said as rapidly as he could, mangling the signs. He didn't much care. He headed for the door again. Sherlock caught him again. 

"Would you please let me stalk out!" John shouted into Sherlock's face. The man stared, obviously missing it and John pulled away again. The bar was quiet now, probably trying not to laugh. 

"John-" 

No, he really didn't want to hear it said aloud. 

_I know you're married to your damn work._

God, it'd been obvious for years. Why did Sherlock have to go and realize it in the middle of a crowded bar? 

~~/~~ 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 

Sherlock watched John stride out, utterly confused. He'd missed something there, something important. John had shouted and blushed and told him he'd stay even if Sherlock had no personal attachment to him. The man was right; that was pathetic. But where had that come from? The shouting made sense; Sherlock had known bringing up Harry would hurt and he'd done it intentionally – but John hadn't mentioned that at all. He'd shouted about whether or not Sherlock cared, and then hadn't wanted him to confirm it. 

Emotions were horrible. Sherlock followed after the man, an idea slowly forming in his head, watching as John marched down the street and tore open the door to 221B. 

He didn't follow the man into the flat. He needed to think. Sherlock circled around outside the door, letting his fingers support his chin as he followed out the line of thought. John wanted him to approve of him, seemed to light up whenever Sherlock smiled; he'd known that since the first day. John had proven over the last month that he wanted to know everything about him, _actually_ wanted to know the answer to how many washing machines his parents had owned – it was never just another ASL exercise for him. In a conversation about Sherlock -regardless of its irrelevance- John never got bored. Sherlock ran the month through his mind to confirm it – how many times had John complained about the ASL words, complained about having to talk about himself, taken breaks for too long – but he'd never done any of that if Sherlock had been the one talking. 

_How could I be this blind to the issue?_ Sherlock snarled at himself. It seemed _obvious;_ there was an explanation to John's behavior, to his anger and confessions and random bouts of blushing. God, the same topic and he'd missed it again. 

It would all come together with one clean explanation if John fancied him. 

God, adrenaline pressed into his veins, quickening his heart Emotions were _distracting_ and yet they flooded him at the thought of John looking at him that way, touching him. He needed to not think about it, as soon as possible. But first, he needed to _know._ He wanted more than he expected – how could he have predicted?; This was like cocaine, but without as high a risk to his mental faculties. He'd shown himself able to work around John before – as long as he wasn't confused by the man. If this worked out – Sherlock suppressed his adrenal glands again -John would have to make sure he never confused him again. It interfered with _everything._ Sherlock dashed for the stairs. 

John was standing in the kitchen when Sherlock got inside. The man was rubbing his hands over his face, obviously waiting for the kettle to boil. He'd spilled water over his hands, dried them on the dishtowel over the stove handle – likely didn't want to know where that'd been. 

He'd tell him, just for amusement. But first he needed to get answers, so he could think about anything else again. This was going to be awkward. 

~~/~~ 

John heard Sherlock step into the kitchen and ran his hands down his face, trying to school them into something approaching dignified. 

_Here's hoping he somehow misconstrued every possible meaning that little outburst could have,_ John prayed, doubting it. God, he'd managed to hide it for over a year – or at least, he thought he had, and of course Sherlock would find out from his practically shouting obscenities. He'd usually have drank another beer and gone home after one of Sherlock's moods. But the man had been acting so _insane._ John rubbed his hand down his face again. 

"John I abhor ambiguity. You are both attracted to me and emotionally attached to my presence and yet you have not acted on any such impulse. Why?" Sherlock demanded, walking forward until he was pushing into his space. John stepped back, allowing his hips to ram into the kitchen countertop to get another inch of room between them. 

_What the devil?_

"Hold the phone," John demanded, blinking rapidly as he tried to catch up. 

_What the devil?_

Sherlock backed up, apparently sensing his discomfort and John glanced over the man's face for any clues as to what had brought on the sudden attack. Sherlock was glaring at him impatiently, obviously waiting for an answer. 

Not that there was much to process, John realized after a moment. Cat was out of the bag; he was attracted to his flatmate. That was really all there was to tell. 

Awkward, but that was all. Which actually rather sucked. 

"-I -knew -you -say -'no', -so -goal -what?" John replied before turning away to put the kettle on. He blew out a breath, grateful at least that his emotional wreck of a flatmate was at least unromantic enough that the declaration was not going to risk their friendship. 

Speaking of.., John turned to put Sherlock out of his misery. The man detested social awkwardness more than anyone he'd ever met. 

Sherlock was staring at him like he'd grown a third head and declared he'd actually gotten shot by PETA. 

"-Also -I -know -finish, -you -marry -with -work," John added to try and dispel the awkwardness for the man. 

And given that that was all there was to say, John turned back to the kettle to fill it from the sink. It was already full and John cursed himself, putting it back down. He'd done that already. 

"John... how long has this been true?" Sherlock asked. John felt his eyebrows rise and turned around. 

"-You -don't know?" he asked. Sherlock was standing stiffly, seeming to take up twice as much space in the kitchen and looking trapped. 

_Bloody awkward man._

"I am not excellent at sentiment," Sherlock replied. 

"-Not -your -area," John agreed. Sherlock smirked slightly, his blush fading slightly before suddenly rising back in force. 

_Now what?_

John leaned against the countertop, deciding that overall this conversation wasn't going nearly as badly as he'd imagined. At least not for him. 

"How long have you been interested in me?" Sherlock asked, sounding still utterly baffled by the idea – despite correctly deducing and taking advantage of a total stranger's interest at least once a month. 

"About a year," John replied, remembering the smell of chlorine, his arm around a man's throat. _You've rather showed your hand there, Dr. Watson._

Sherlock was gaping at him again. Okay, so apparently the man hadn't figured it out on his own. John wished it wouldn't be horrendously insensitive to snap a photograph, because _god_ he wanted to immortalize that expression. It was only going to happen once. 

There was no subsequent _oh_ as the pieces all slid into place for the man. No, Sherlock just kept staring, his face still tinged with a blush and his mouth slightly open, his eyes racing over John's body. 

"How the devil could I have missed it?" he asked. 

"-I -not -really sure. -Assumptions, -probably," John replied, grinning at the word that he knew would raise Sherlock's hackles. And there they were, he thought as the man sneered. 

"You're likely right," Sherlock snarled and John felt his eyebrows shoot up yet again. And now he really wished he were recording this. 

Except... at the end of the day, it really was awkward. 

_Right._

"-After -that -lovely -conversation; -case, -any -more -ideas?" John asked, knowing the answer, just to be saying _something_ as he walked past the man. Sherlock grabbed his arm, damn him, the heat from his hand seeping through John's shirt. Still, the awkward helped. For once he could actually not be interested around the man. 

"John," Sherlock said softly, in that tone he used when he was actually apologetic. Soft, _kind,_ nervous as hell. John glanced up at him, feeling his eyebrows furrow. He hadn't thought Sherlock would be affected; he was _sure_ Sherlock wouldn't be affected. Their friendship would go on the same. So what the devil? 

"John, I said, I despise ambiguity. Are you just attracted to me or interested in me?" 

_The devil? Is he...?_

Damn it, could the man have asked anything else? 

Sherlock's eyes were wide, his hand too tight on John's arm – like he wasn't thinking about his grip. The man was likely close to tearing the flat apart in one of his tantrums, though John desperately wished he knew why. 

"-S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K," John spelled out, because he would have said it and he needed time. Sherlock read his fingers and shot him a derisive glance, looking like _him_ again for a moment. John smiled slightly at the thought. 

And hell, he knew Sherlock's ego was sensitive. This was going to hurt him. The man's pale blue eyes were glancing over his face, looking almost... hopeful? Oh, hell, John hoped not. Mycroft would murder him. 

_There's no way he's interested by me,_ John reminded himself. 

"-You -attract -me," John replied, expecting to watch Sherlock's face do something miserable. Instead – _of course –_ Sherlock's expression only intensified, his grip on his arm tightening to something approaching painful. 

"Why not interested?" he demanded. 

"-Matter -why? -Rather personal -question," John replied, wishing desperately the kettle would shriek and give him an excuse to get out of this one. 

"Why not interested?" Sherlock repeated, looking as annoyed as he ever was when getting denied information. 

Well, hell. John didn't think he'd ever wanted as badly to be able to just _speak._ At least he had planned ahead for this one, inevitable as it was. 

"-I -don't know -you -well. -Hell, -I -don't know -how many -siblings -you -have," John stated, only to remember belatedly that didn't apply. Sherlock looked at him like he'd just grown a _fourth_ head. "-Fine, -yes, -that -one -I -now -know. -But -you -child -have -any -pets? -Where -you -grow -up? School, -like -or -hate -which?" John ranted. 

Sherlock blinked down at him slowly. God, he was a handsome man and even despite the _horrid_ awkward, John liked the feeling of those intense eyes inspecting him. 

"Why would that be relevant?" Sherlock asked softly, sounding utterly baffled and – there it was – hurt. Damn it. 

John shrugged. 

"-I -don't want -shag -someone -if -I don't know -whether -they -have -one -sibling -or -twenty," John replied. It sounded reasonable, but John knew that as soon as it entered Sherlock's brain he'd be analyzing it, seeing inconsistencies and logical flaws until he went round the twist. "-Not -need -rational," he added. 

"You do know how many siblings I have. I did not have any pets. You know where I grew up and I enjoyed school when I was quite young and hated it after the age of eight. I thought university would be better but was swiftly proven wrong and rectified the situation, which you also know," Sherlock recited. 

John blinked, an idea slowly forming. It felt retardedly slow, because it seemed so obvious that Sherlock was arguing with him, throwing himself at him but was it possible... John felt his eyebrows furrow seriously. Was the man _actually_ throwing himself at him? What would it mean? Would they shag and be friends or would he be expected to come for Christmas? Did Sherlock even understand the difference? 

"Sherlock..." John started aloud, though he had nothing to say. That was the trouble with ASL; he knew no 'filler' words. Couldn't spell out Sherlock's name inanely every time. 

"Do not trifle with me. I have made my move, by rights it should now be yours," Sherlock demanded, releasing John's arm and stepping away from him again. 

_Holy shite._ John made himself take a deep breath, trying to think. Sherlock was propositioning him, was _propositioning_ him,and what would that mean – sex, no sex, exclusivity, a legal civil partnership? 

Did it much matter? A foolish, hopeful little part of him asked; he'd take anything Sherlock would give him, wouldn't he? 

But no, he'd made his judgment on this before. He would not have a boyfriend he couldn't get to know. 

_But that was because you never asked,_ he thought, remembering. Their dates, the cases, the horrible stretches of ASL word sheets and mind-numbingly boring conversations that were so damn difficult in a foreign language, and Sherlock sitting in front of him, holding out a yellow apple, talking about when they'd gotten it, looking for all the world like he could sit there all day until John understood. Hell, Sherlock had talked about his mother leaving him alone for twelve hours. What more did he want from the man? 

Everything. God, he wanted everything from this man. 

Who was standing in front of him, his eyes darting over John's face and his body stiffened -like a dog not yet certain whether to attack or run. 

Sherlock cared about his answer. Cared more than even John was quite comfortable with. 

_My god, is this actually going to happen?_

"-You -propose -what? -Sex? -Boy -friends?" 

If Sherlock was having him on, he would murder the man. He would cut him into pieces and fish with him as bait in the Thames. 

Sherlock drew himself up, somehow taller and tighter. 

"I prefer partners," he bit out, his lips pinched, though John detected a slight shifting in his eyes, where they darted over his face. Hope, maybe? 

John was suddenly aware that they were both standing stiffly in the kitchen, staring into each other's faces, a foot and a half from each other. The least romantic way this _possibly_ could have gone down, even if Sherlock did accept him. And what, they fall into each other's arms, kiss, start on a wonderful future together? He could barely imagine it, he just _wanted_ the genius man, wanted to be with him and in him and know him better, wanted Sherlock to want the same with him. 

And he had _no_ idea how to accept the offer without making it awkward as hell. 

_Here goes._

"-Exist -manner -accept -without -awkward?" John asked. Sherlock's lips twitched in a smirk, looking like _him_ for a moment, before Sherlock's face cleared and rose and he looked about to smile fully. 

"Am I misconstruing this or are you saying yes?" Sherlock asked. John grinned outright, still not sure how to actually _approach_ the man he'd just accepted. 

"-I -say -yes," John replied and Sherlock's face lit up in an _insane_ grin that had John mirroring it in a moment, unsure what else to do but just beam back at the man. 

_Holy shit,_ he processed, suddenly feeling possibility open up in front of him. Sherlock was..Sherlock wanted... 

John took a step forward, wanting to test the waters. 

"You want me sexually," Sherlock observed aloud, though he didn't frown about it like he usually did when he discussed such things. 

"Yes," John replied, unsure again. Could he be in a relationship with a man who didn't want him? Sherlock looked down at his own trousers and John followed his gaze. 

Apparently that wasn't going to be an issue. Sherlock was tenting. Rather marvelously. John felt a grin stretch across his face again. He took another step forward, placing a hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock glanced over his face, looking unsure again. 

"I want to hold you down and fuck you," Sherlock announced, sounding slightly confused, as he always did about emotions. 

And oh my lord. John processed and felt himself gulp. His mouth watered. 

John cleared his throat. 

"Right, yes," he said aloud, and ignored when Sherlock's brow creased, trying to catch the words. He leaned up, a strange feeling he hadn't had since university – having to tilt his head up to kiss a man, and wrapped a hand into Sherlock's soft hair – remembering how awful it was to bandage the skull beneath it but damn the hair felt good between his fingers. 

His lips met Sherlock's and it felt like any first kiss with a man – rough stubble, soft lips, the smell of a man's shampoo. Sherlock tilted his head and leaned down to fit him better and John was able to rock back fully onto his feet, and then Sherlock was huffing in frustration and pushing him back until John was pressed against the wall and Sherlock was standing between his legs. Sherlock pushed his mouth against John's again, moving on his own now, and it was too rough until John got a hand between them, pushed against Sherlock's chest and immediately Sherlock responded, his mouth softening against John's and damn, but that was right. John pressed back, letting his mouth open, asking for more. 

_Oh my god,_ he thought, unsure what the _devil_ had just gone down over the last day. But the next time he felt tension rising between them he was going to shout abuse at the man in a crowded pub again because apparently wonderful things came of it. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock was surprised. He'd expected this to feel stagnant – now that he knew what John wanted there was no content left to the activity, nothing to drive him. He'd never been particularly comfortable with touch and the idea of anything personal, sexual, was either disgustingly vulgar or dull to the point of distraction. Masturbation was certainly that way. 

But this...his mind was engaged. His mind was _alive, rushing,_ in what felt like solving a puzzle but had no end goal in sight, just the rush. It was like cocaine, but without the inevitable blurriness. Sherlock pushed his face into John's shoulder, breathing in the smell of his hair, feeling his body want to take over, wanting to push and _bite_ and damn it, but John was too far away, too clothed, not touching him, and he wanted to ride this high as long as he could. 

He could do this to the man, see John high in a way he never otherwise could, see him lost in it. The power rushed over him and Sherlock found himself grinning. This could be _fun._

~~/~~ 

"Sherlock," John asked nervously, holding a hand out to push against Sherlock's chest. "-You -finish -do -this -past -yes?" 

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes clouding over with what looked very much like embarrassment. 

"-If -no -we -must -continue -slow," John amended. They hardly needed to have the whole 'past experience' talk now. God forbid. He'd explode. John pushed his body up Sherlock's slowly, letting his hips and groin rub up Sherlock's trousers. The man was hard beneath him and hissed slowly as John settled himself closer to the man. 

"Slow -ah! Slowly, then," Sherlock made out and John bit his neck as high up as he could reach, feeling possession wash through him. He'd be the first, then. Damn right. 

He pushed Sherlock back forcefully, enjoying the force of his muscles against the man. He started on Sherlock's shirt buttons and the man pushed back, forcing him back against the wall. 

_Oh hell yes._ Sherlock took control, shoving a knee in between his to spread them and pushing himself up against John's chest. John continued on the buttons, desperate to see the man out of his shirt. Sherlock bit into his neck and John threw his head back, gasping, wondering how the _hell_ Sherlock could know about that spot. Sherlock moved down his neck, biting again as his fingers nimbly unclasped the button of his pants and John grunted. 

"You like that?" Sherlock asked and it could have been coy but it came out pure Sherlock, pure curiosity. John nodded quickly. Ah, so he hadn't known he'd just - 

"Christ!" John choked out, doing his best not to wrench his hips forward when Sherlock slid himself down his body, onto his knees. The man glanced up, his eyes flashing beneath his long lashes and John nodded rapidly, trying not to get too excited. He'd have to stay still, not thrust. Jesus, the man was undoing his trousers. And this from a man who'd seemed so very inexperienced? 

_Oh hell,_ John had to pause it. He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pushed him back slightly. 

"-You -want -this, -yes? -not -too much?" John asked and Sherlock's face lightened in a small smile as he pulled the trousers down the rest of the way. John stepped out of them automatically, though he wasn't sure.. 

"Too much is you doing this to me. This is just fun," Sherlock replied. John's eyebrows furrowed, that didn't sound quite right, it had to be even, he was definitely going to do it in return. Should he stop it now until Sherlock could take it in ret- oh Jesus but he wasn't that good a man, Sherlock was mouthing at him through his pants. Wet and pressure and _god_ he wanted skin on skin. 

He grabbed onto Sherlock's hair and shoulder and felt as the man leaned in and then John was slamming his head back on the wall, trying not to shout. Heat and wet and the whole head was in Sherlock's mouth beneath the pants, and John clenched his fists. 

_Don't thrust don't thrust don't_ Sherlock had the whole head in his mouth and he pulled back, his lips dragging and tightening over the crown in that way that made his whole body say _thrust_ and he slammed his head against the wall again. God, it'd been too long, this was amazing, Sherlock was amazing and hell the man was pulling him out of his pants. 

"-I -not -continue -long," John warned but he wasn't sure Sherlock was watching. And somehow, he couldn't quite get himself to care. 

Sherlock sucked him into his mouth without any trace of hesitation and John didn't think he'd ever loved that about the man quite so much as when it meant his whole shaft was wet and warm and a very certain, perfect tongue was pressing against the base, rubbing – John had to forcibly release his hold on Sherlock's hair. 

"Oh my god," He gasped out, wanting Sherlock to know he was _perfect_ and he looked down to see Sherlock glancing up at him, looking smug and _god_ it was _Sherlock_ pulling back on his dick, sucking hard and John had to look away again before the tingling in his groin threatened to overwhelm him. 

_Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_

_Too much, too much too much,_ Oh god, there was no use, he knew this feeling. Tingling was building up in his groin and arse, starting to contract and he wanted to _slam_ forward and sink in and Sherlock was moving faster, sucking and rubbing and _fuck_ it was warm and wet and perfect except he couldn't _move_ and he shook Sherlock's shoulder, hoping that was warning enough. 

He slammed his head back on the wall again and the contractions sped up. He let his body tighten and pressurize and _god fuck_ as long as he didn't _move_ and he made himself release Sherlock's hair, because there was _no way_ he was allowing the man to stop if he had a hold on him and he dug his nails into the man's shoulders instead. He slammed his head back one more time as the pressure broke and _god_ it felt good and Sherlock wasn't stopping as the contractions forced their way wonderfully through his dick into the heat until he was done and his dick was wet and warm and he could breathe again. 

"Holy fuck," John said to the ceiling as Sherlock stood up. John slipped himself back into his pants before he got cold and smiled at the man who was definitely the best thing on earth. 

"-Good?" Sherlock signed and John just smiled up at him and grabbed his shirt, wanting to feel the man's warmth against him again. He kissed the man again, grinning stupidly against his mouth. And hell, he'd only ever managed to get the man's shirt unbuttoned. He buried his face in the man's chest, too post-orgasmic to care that his head only reached the man's shoulder. 

_Mmm sleep,_ he thought, happily rubbing his face against the man's light chest hair, though there wasn't much. Damn, Sherlock smelled good. Like _man_ and wasn't it odd that he had the vomeronasal organ receptors for both sexes...oh he didn't care. Sherlock smelled good. 

And was still hard, pressing against his hip. John pulled back for a moment. 

"-I -ready -minute -future," he signed before letting his body collapse against Sherlock's again. 

"Ready for what?" Sherlock asked, sounding actually confused. John rolled his eyes and smiled and pushed back again. 

"-Help you -with -that," John replied, pressing his hand into Sherlock's groin over his trousers. Sherlock's eyes rolled up in his head and he gasped. "-Your -bedroom -there. -Go," John ordered, pushing against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock held his ground, shaking his head. 

"There's a dead owl on it," he said. 

_Of course._

_Right._ _Okay._ John blinked. 

"Mine then," he replied, deciding to ask later. Sherlock smiled at him fully and John had to grin back, thrilled with this idea. Holy hell. 

_Holy hell,_ he repeated as he pushed Sherlock back toward his bed when the man moved to stand awkwardly beside it. The genius didn't know where to go. That was fine; John did. 

"-Lie -there, -do -anything -you -want, -but -my hair, -don't pull too hard -and -don't thrust," John ordered as he lowered himself over the man. Sherlock stared up at him, his pupils dilating rapidly with obvious understanding and John started to work his way down, biting slightly at the skin down Sherlock's chest. He wanted to spend more time, looking over the body beneath him. 

_If I get a second shot at this,_ a part of him whispered but John suppressed it. Not the time. He focused on the sound of Sherlock's heavy breathing and god, his smell was incredible. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock was desperately trying not to shout. There was a chance it would disturb John – Mrs. Hudson would hear, doubtlessly, and John could be self-conscious about the woman – and then John would _stop_ and England would fall. 

God, but it was shout or thrust and he couldn't do either. John sucked him down -further than the back of his mouth; he had no natural gag reflex or he'd done this before -and it was _warm_ and _wet_ and his brain felt ready to explode while coming up with no ideas at all. This was _stimulating_ and it kept growing, swamping him. 

John pulled back too far, pulled away, letting the cold air strike him and Sherlock let himself growl. It came out more feral than he'd meant it -not good? He didn't know these rules... 

"Too much?" John asked and Sherlock looked down. John's hair was mussed and it made Sherlock want to push inside the man, claim him as his own and bite down until it showed. He needed to know the rules here. 

"Don't. Stop," Sherlock growled and John beamed at him. Sherlock blinked – that was good? That usually wasn't good. But John moved back over him and Sherlock had to pound his body into submission to force it down into the bed, not moving. 

His brain was going to implode. He knew this feeling – tingling sensation in the pelvic area, extending to the arse, feeling of contraction, blood and semen building up in the balls and penis; he was going to come. He'd only felt it once before and it'd been base and boring and left him sticky but here he had John and he was already sticky and he didn't care. Didn't even close to care, he _wanted._

_God,_ he wanted more and his brain was racing; it was better than halfway through the chase, when he knew he'd won and Sherlock let himself groan, throwing his head back to knock it against the mattress. 

_Don't thrust, don't thrust, don't thrust._

This was _amazing._ Sherlock let out a gasp, feeling the tide break and his body try to snap forward, elation and release and hormones rushing his brain like so much cocaine. 

~~/~~ 

John lay on his back, quietly enjoying the feeling of a very pliant Sherlock in his bed. Sherlock had rolled over, his face pressing into John's chest and closed his eyes, his legs extending out forever down the bed. 

_Christ,_ John thought, letting his hand brush through Sherlock's hair. Was this to be believed? If this actually worked.. 

He'd never get over it. He could swear that right now without a doubt; if Sherlock and he could actually make this into a relationship and it didn't work out, he'd never find anyone to fix it. There was no one else like him in the world and no one else he'd want. 

_Christ._ This was dangerous. 

But if it _did?_ John tried to imagine the genius at eighty years old, rarely ever making his own tea, shooting walls and shouting at the nursing staff for being utterly incompetent. God, he wanted to be there. 

_My best friend._ No choosing between Sherlock and a relationship and no living as a bachelor with the man. He could have both. God, he'd be so happy. 

Sherlock shifted slightly, blinked and breathed in through his nose, apparently _smelling_ him. Alright. 

John smiled and closed his eyes, planning to sleep and enjoying the quiet moment. 

Which Sherlock promptly ruined by having a conniption. The man threw himself upright and John moved, snapping his hips up and out of the way before the man kneed him in the balls. He didn't think Sherlock noticed at all; the man was currently fighting the sheet over them in what looked like a panic. The man finally clawed his way out of the sheet enough to _not_ fall on the floor as he rolled over and out of the bed, though his foot was still stuck and it wrenched the sheet with him as the man fought his way standing. 

"Christ, Sherlock, what?" John shouted, but the man was already striding toward the stairs, his face bright red in a blush – probably about that absolute failure of an attempt to stand up. John shook his head, pulling himself out of the bed and taking the time to get redressed before he followed the man who was apparently walking stalkers around their flat. 

By the time he got downstairs Sherlock was dressed in fresh clothing and grabbing his coat. 

"-If -you -have -that -much -trouble -standing -up -from -bed, -I -understand -why -you -don't sleep -there," John stated, grinning. Sherlock glared at him before he broke out in the superior, smug smile he always wore when he'd figured something out. 

"The butcher _,_ " he hissed. "Come on, John!" 

John grinned like a madman, running after the man as he rushed from the flat. 

~~/~~ 

**A/N: Please help my professional writing career by following me on Twitter at @GwendolynTweets ! Agents and Editors really want to see a strong online following. @GwendolynTweets  
**


	10. Chapter 10

~~/~~ 

John stared out at where Peter Ricolleti was getting escorted out of his front door, trying to figure out how, exactly, he was going to get into Sherlock's bed – or Sherlock into his – again without it being awkward. Sherlock stood beside him, content and proud after a cleanly wrapped up, two year old _impossible_ case, his hands shoved into the high pockets of his coat, apparently content to watch his prey taken away in cuffs. 

John tried to focus on the battered woman currently crying as the schmuck was taken off her front porch in cuffs, trying to think about the good they were doing her rather than how glad he was the case was done so he could drag the consulting detective under the sheets again. So far it was a helpless case; he noticed Sherlock's _breathing._

"Christ, I hate domestics," Lestrade cursed, coming to stand beside them away from the flashing police lights. 

"-He -say -Jesus -I -hate -A-B-U-S-E -case," John translated. 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his eyes flickering down to look at the inspector. Lestrade blinked back and glanced at John. 

"That really ought to be obvious," he said. Sherlock peered at him. 

"-That -should -obvious," John translated. 

"Why? You work homicide, why would it be better if she were dead?" Sherlock asked, glancing between the Inspector and the woman on the porch as if trying to sense if there were some alternative relationship between them. 

"Christ, Sherlock, why are you so-" Lestrade started. 

"Psychotic?" Donovan filled in, striding up to them. "It's in his nature." Lestrade glanced at them, looking apologetic for drawing his partner over. 

"-She -say -P-S-Y-C-H-O-T-I-C, -sorry, -Christ, -that word -long. -She -need -find -more -short -insult," John translated before switching his attention to the female detective. "Do you usually insult psychopaths or do you just trust this one?" 

Donovan blinked at him and scoffed. 

"I probably shouldn't take that to mean you've come to your senses about him," she said, shaking her head. 

_Not in the way you mean._

"No," John answered simply, shaking his head at her slowly as if she were daft. 

Donovan sneered at him and glanced at Lestrade. 

"Are we going to have a press conference on this one?" she asked him. 

"-What -say -you?" Sherlock asked, turning toward John. John shrugged slightly. 

"-I ask her -if -she -insult -all -people -she -think -P-S-Y-C-H-O-T-I-C, -only -you, -which?" 

Sherlock smirked. 

"Dinner?" he asked and John nodded. It'd be a relief to just get off his feet. "Chinese or Italian, there's both close by," Sherlock added. 

"-Chinese," John requested and Sherlock smiled slightly at his knowing the sign. Sherlock nodded and started off and John waited long enough to nod at Lestrade who was halfway through a sentence with Donovan. Lestrade nodded back and John started for the genius waiting for him to catch up. 

They walked in an easy silence and John followed Sherlock's lead, spending his time glancing up at the stars whenever he could. The night was incredibly clear and the sky was visible despite the London smog. 

"-Enjoy -sight -stars -you -say. -Not learn -about -them -why not?" he asked. Sherlock let his head fall back a moment as he walked, looking up at the sky. 

"I'm not curious about everything, John. If I'm interested in something, I'll research it. That's hardly different, is it?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his eyebrows. 

"-No," John agreed. 

The silence began to feel stilted as they approached the door to the Chinese restaurant and John glanced over at Sherlock, unsure what to say. 

_This feels like a date,_ he thought as they walked together. Sherlock glanced at him, looking curious, before pulling open the restaurant door. John walked inside and Sherlock followed him. 

"Table for two?" the waitress asked and John nodded, wishing they were in Angelos being accosted by the owner and a crowd. Here it was almost empty but for a businessman and his wife. They were brought to a table large enough for four and John sat down facing the door and tried not to grimace at the lit candle between them. They stayed silent, glancing over their menus until John put his aside, wondering why this was rapidly turning into a very bad date. He felt like he was supposed to lean across the table and ask where Sherlock was from. John blinked, suddenly remembering something. 

"-You -rich; -Money -from -banker – you -not accept -why? -You -not -need," John started. Sherlock was looking at him with that 'That wasn't obvious?" somewhat sickened expression that always drove him spare. "-Year -past -you -need -flat -friend -why?" he asked. Sherlock's face cleared in understanding – a 'reasonable' question, then. 

"Crime. You're 90% less likely to be robbed while in the flat. Between a common worker's schedule and mine my experiments would have been protected 99% of the time and our schedules would interact so infrequently as to be of little importance. A doctor's schedule was not ideal but not overly so and was more than made up for by the chance of available medical care," Sherlock replied. 

_Romantic,_ John thought, sitting back in his booth. Still, it was about what he expected. The silence stretched out again and the waitress came up to them to lay a couple menus before them. 

"Hello, my name is Miranda and I'll be serving you today. Can I start you off with something to drink?" she asked and John wanted to bless her for the interruption. 

"Just water, please," he answered and she apparently took that as answer for both of them as she smiled quickly and dashed away faster than was strictly polite. 

"We've had sex, or something fairly close to it. That is the only remarkable change in this relationship. Does that change something?" Sherlock asked. John blinked at the genius, trying to catch up. Fortunately the man was quiet enough that the businessman did _not_ turn and stare at them. "Should I be opening more doors now?" Sherlock asked. 

John felt himself blink rapidly again and glanced at his menu, though he already knew he was having the chicken fried rice. He had a feeling Sherlock had just asked him if this was a date. He honestly...didn't really know what that would mean. John kept quiet, preferring to think. 

They already lived together. They already ate together. He wasn't going to sleep with anyone else – just the thought felt revolting and he had a nagging idea it would destroy the man in front of him. He didn't know if he was going to wake up beside the man or not – likely not, Sherlock barely ever slept and when he did it was on the couch. They were just living that rather large bit more together. John glanced up and Sherlock was peering at him, apparently inspecting his face for clues. John sighed and closed his menu. 

"-D-A-T-E -mean -try -something -new. -See -if -two -people -who -don't know -eachother, -live -together -can? -We -live -together -now," John answered and Sherlock's face cleared. 

"So we can skip that part?" he confirmed and John nodded, taking a sip of his water. 

"-Thank -god, -yes," he answered and Sherlock smiled at him. 

"Good. They looked dull. I'd much prefer to be two people who go out and have fun together," Sherlock replied. It sounded like a quote from something but John couldn't place it. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and sat back but there was a lightness in his expression that told John he wasn't actually annoyed and John relaxed, comfortable in the silence again. 

"That rag you cleaned your hands on earlier had bits of owl intestine on it," Sherlock stated suddenly and John nodded to himself and got up to go wash his hands. Sherlock grinned, looking amused. 

~~/~~ 

The awkward silence returned as they approached 221B. Sherlock kept an eye on John as they walked toward the building, aware that this was another zone where the rules could have changed. He needed to know, needed data, but all John did was stand there and wait for him to unlock the door, quiet and unflappable as always. There was a slight deepening in the wrinkles around John's mouth and forehead – an indication that he was bothered but not much of one. 

Sherlock opened the door and walked inside before John because he almost always entered that way and John would have seen the difference if he'd held the door instead – would he really? The man was unobservant – and John had not answered his question about doors. 

_This is horrible._ And he'd _asked_ for this change. What had he been thinking? He hated change in his home. Sherlock led the way up the stairs, wishing he could continue watching the man though he knew John never gave him any clues. Sherlock stood inside the flat and John walked in past him, throwing his coat over his desk chair the way he always did. The flat looked utterly unchanged and the silence was horrible. 

_Am I supposed to be sexual now? I don't want to be._ Couples commonly lived together as casual flatmates for much of their lives; that was evident, but he didn't know _how._ He didn't even know where to put his hands. 

"I need rules, John," Sherlock growled. John looked up from where he was opening the electric bill left on his desk. 

"Sorry?" he asked though surely he could figure it out on his own – how many other classifications of rules could he _possibly_ want? Rules were limiting. 

Sherlock threw himself down on the couch to scowl at the ceiling. It seemed like a perfectly good excuse not to have to look at the man. 

"Rules. Which have changed? Are my bacteria-injected eggs unacceptable now? Does my violin, the days without talking bother you now? Do I have to touch you all the time? How often? Am I allowed to demand you move to my bed or do we continue to sleep separate despite the corresponding heat benefits – usually that only requires a sexual relationship and that has been fulfilled," Sherlock reasoned before tilting his head to glance at his partner. John's frown had dissipated – pleased or amused, apparently. About what? Too many options. 

"-Rules -same," John answered. "-Your -bed, -I -not -sleep -with -owl -there." 

Sherlock felt a smirk quirk at his lips at the idea before he started toward his laptop. He watched John's reaction carefully. This was horrible – he didn't like asking permission for something entirely reasonable. John nodded easily, not mocking, not seeming to notice the oddity of it all. Sherlock crossed to his computer and sat down, feeling relief course through his body. This was good. John waved his hands slightly and Sherlock looked up. 

"-Wait, -if -I -say, -you -stop -all -that?" John asked. 

_Rather showed your hand there, Sherlock._

Sherlock grimaced and a smile twitched on John's face, before slowly blooming into a full out smile. John didn't make those often and Sherlock smiled back lightly before turning to concentrate on his work. 

~~/~~ 

John leaned against the bedroom wall while he watched Sherlock meticulously move the sprawled-out owl skeleton onto a tray and off his mattress. Pleasantly enough, Sherlock didn't need to be told that he also needed to change the sheets and John left him to it, moving to sit down at the kitchen table and pretend to read the paper. Sherlock would have given up his violin for him? His days without talking – meaning he'd have found something benign to say and actually said it? John wasn't sure he believed it, but the idea that Sherlock had considered it was enough. 

_This might be wonderful._

John forced himself to actually read the classifieds, thinking it would probably be best for Sherlock to have another case to get him through the social awkwardness bit of this change. A small case though; something unworthy of the paper at all, preferably. He didn't like fame, to say the least; the last thing he needed was an exposé on his medical and service record and it was clearly coming to that. 

People were beginning to recognize him in the street _without_ Sherlock by his side. 

Sherlock came out of the bedroom and crouched before the cabinet behind the kitchen table they'd turned into a linen closet. He dug out a new set of deep purple sheets and stalked toward his room, glaring at the bit of cloth like he could scare it into setting itself as he acted with most chores. John returned to the paper; it was a difficult mix to find – a crime simple enough to avoid the news and hard enough to interest a genius. There was nothing today but a few common muggings and a lost cat. If nothing else, _he_ didn't want to deal with them. 

Eventually John looked up to see Sherlock hovering in the doorway to his bedroom, looking utterly uncomfortable. He was clasping and unclasping his hands and snarling silently to himself, looking like a dog about to break lose from his chain. John sent back to the paper, figuring Sherlock would figure it out on his own. 

"John, how do people _do_ this?" Sherlock snarled finally, sounding disgusted by the very idea. John put down the paper. 

"-Fuck -or -ask for it?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. 

_Oh hell, the question better not be why they want –_ he thought but Sherlock scoffed at him nastily. He'd have started ranting about the uselessness of emotions if he'd been found without one. So the man was sexual – thank god. He was just utterly, utterly out of his element. 

"-Sit," John ordered, getting up from his chair. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. 

"How would that help?" he asked, but he obeyed and took John's place. 

John walked over to the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom and turned around, doing his best to put himself where Sherlock had been hovering. He nodded firmly and Sherlock nodded back – apparently understanding the show-not-tell session. John strode over to where Sherlock was staring at him and pushed his hands into Sherlock's hair, tipping the man's head back. He kissed him lightly before pushing himself more firmly against the man. Sherlock's mouth opened. This, at least, the man clearly knew how to do. 

Holy shit, he was allowed to kiss Sherlock Holmes. John grinned against Sherlock's lips and moved to kiss him again, pushing until Sherlock shifted in his chair to face him better. John let his hands slide down Sherlock's chest, pushing against the hard muscle there. Christ, sex with a man was so different. He preferred it in almost every sense; the heat, the smell, the muscle, every way except for the career consequences in the British Army. He'd never been so grateful to be out of the service in his life. Sherlock pushed against his hands, moving to stand up as he wrapped his hands around John's waist. 

"My bedroom, now," he ordered and John smiled again. 

_I would have you, right here, until you begged for mercy twice._ God, he could say that to this man. _I've never begged for mercy in my life,_ Sherlock had responded. That sounded like a challenge to him, John thought, allowing Sherlock to push him backward toward the bedroom. 

~~/~~ 

John walked into Scotland Yard and headed past the secretary's desk to the lifts. The woman nodded at them, long past needing ID and John stepped past a few exiting cops to nab their lift. 

"Alright, John?" one of the cops called out and John lifted a hand in greeting. 

"Alright," he answered, pressing the button for the second floor for the criminal investigation 

department. Sherlock stepped inside after him, apparently unbothered. 

"-That -not bother -you?" he asked. Sherlock blinked at him. 

"Sorry, what?" he asked. 

"-He -not say -you -hello -also," John replied. Sherlock shook his head, looking lost. 

"Why would I care?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused. John nodded, accepting it. "I don't know him," Sherlock added, gesturing at the closing lift door. "Neither do you; why would you want him to greet you?" 

John shrugged slightly. 

"-Bit -friendly," he answered. 

"I don't want to be his friend," Sherlock replied, still sounding confused. John shook his head. 

"-That -my -answer. -No, -not bother -you," John replied. 

The lift doors opened and John walked out onto the main floor of Scotland Yard. There were officer's desks at the center and sides of the room, leaving a hallway to the conference room on the right and Lestrade's office at the back. John moved for the conference room, knowing it'd be set up with tables for the press conference as it always was. The conference room had a large glass door which allowed John to know a good dozen press members were waiting for him before he entered. 

Fortunately, the press kept their calm and professional masks on when standing in the middle of Scotland Yard in front of a detective inspector. John entered the room easily and the press didn't bother taking photos, apparently knowing they'd have their chance during the brief press release. The conference room was a large room with light green walls and a white wood paneling. John walked to the back where Lestrade was waiting by the podium. 

"Thank you for showing up," Greg said, shaking his hand and the cameras flashed. "And thank you for making him do so as well," he said, grinning as he released John's hand to take Sherlock's. "Tell him thank you?" Greg asked John. John turned to Sherlock. 

"-You -want -me -tell -him -talk directly to you?" John asked and Sherlock glanced at the inspector. 

"I never want him to talk to me," Sherlock answered, his mouth quirking to reveal the joke. 

"Tactful," he answered, but he looked at Sherlock when he said it, apparently catching the correction. Lestrade stepped behind the podium and John turned to face the room, wanting to go home even if it did mean Sherlock badgering him into learning to sign the words for different transportation vehicles. 

"Peter Ricolleti," Lestrade started, his voice too loud over the mic. "One of Interpol's most wanted list since 1982. Well, we got him, and there's one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads... with all his customary diplomacy intact," Lestrade said, glancing at Sherlock in apparent amusement. Sherlock glanced at John, looking curious. 

"-P-E-T-E-R -criminal -fuck -not -spell -last -name. -First -most -want -paper -since -how -sign -thousand?" John asked. Well, hell. Lestrade was waiting for him. 

"-Thousand," Sherlock showed him. Hell, that looked like 'again'. 

"-Anyway, -most -want -since -1982. -We -got -him, -thank -you -you -got -him -with -all -D-I-P-L-O-M-A-C-Y -intact. -Sarcasm," John translated. Sherlock shot an amused look at Lestrade. The man nodded and handed him a wrapped package. The cameras flashed again. 

"We all chipped in," Lestrade said. 

"-We -all -buy -together. -He -say, -not -me," John clarified, suspecting there was a horrendous hat in Sherlock's hands. Sherlock no doubt knew exactly what was wrapped in his hands – he was already grimacing. Still, the man unwrapped it. Oh hell, he was right; it was a deerstalker. Sherlock was going to have a hissyfit when they got home. 

"Oh!" Sherlock stated, mocking surprise as he revealed the hat. 

"-He -owe -you -many -favor," John stated, glancing at the inspector. Greg was smirking at their prank. Donovan was grinning happily with Anderson, but at least they looked pleased enough with the case to be acting vaguely pleasant. 

"Put it on!" the crowd demanded repeatedly. Sherlock glared at them, apparently understanding the gist of it on his own. 

Sherlock had obeyed before John had figured out how to tell him to get it over with. Sherlock grimaced under the hat, hopefully enough to curtail any photos of him in it, though John doubted it. 

Donovan clapped triumphantly and Anderson stared at her tits and Sherlock snatched the hat off again. John glanced at the time, hoping the conference was ending. It was 11:45, early yet but he wanted out of there. 

"-Work, -need -go," John stated, Sherlock smirked at him, apparently knowing the time. 

"-Wait," Sherlock signed suddenly, looking nervous. "-meeting -finish, -go -meat -store. -Two in the morning -come -home -maybe. -Not -good?" 

John blinked. God, Sherlock didn't know how to do this at all, did he? 

"-Fine," John answered. 

"Other -couples -not like that," Sherlock stated. 

"-We -not -other -couples," John answered, aware of the group of people now staring at them, cameras flashing. Donovan was glancing between them, looking almost concerned. Sherlock smirked at him and John turned to go, glad to get away from the flashing cameras. 

~~/~~ 

John didn't see Sherlock at all that day. He went to work, half hoping he'd get a text luring him away from the grind of congested children and fevers. He ate left-overs that night and stayed on the couch until he felt pathetic and uncommonly lonely, not sure which bed to chose. He went to his own. The next day passed without a hint of the man and John went to his own bed again starting to wonder if the man had been scared away. Still, he'd told Sherlock nothing had changed and he'd meant it and this was hardly the first night he'd spend without any clue where the genius had gotten to. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock looked up from his completed clotting experiment and read his phone. 1:00 AM – good, the trials had taken longer than he'd expected but John still didn't expect him for – something felt wrong about that. Sherlock checked his phone again. April 16th. Oh...hell. 

Sherlock grabbed his bag and ran for the door, leaving the clean-up for the butcher. He'd certainly paid the man enough for it. He hailed a cabbie a few streets down but it flew past him without even pausing. Sherlock growled and lifted another hand, only to have the cabbie's indicator flash to move over and suddenly die. The taxi pulled back into the street and drove straight past him. 

_What the devil?_

Sherlock glanced down at his clothes and saw nothing but the black of old blood and the red of fresh. Well. That explained it at least. 

"Cowards," he hissed aloud, starting for the closest tube entrance. It was two streets in the wrong direction but still faster given his normal running speed. The idiots. He'd have paid for the damn bloodstain removal. He grabbed a newspaper to cover his face at the sight of a pile of students walking together, two of them wearing the damned brimmed hat he had currently stuffed at the bottom of his bag getting as crushed as possible. The hat was ugly and out of style; there was only one reason they'd be wearing it. _Fans._

He got home at 3 AM – the wrong day – and crept into the flat. A book on ASL left open on the couch – four options. Someone had been reading, someone had thrown it there for some reason or someone had fallen asleep with it over their eyes on the couch. John didn't read on the couch – he preferred the chair for its armrests and better light. He wouldn't have thrown it at anyone – he either shouted, went outside or shot people when he was angry. Mycroft had been in, that was obvious from the finger line of dust brushed off the mantlepiece – prat – but he didn't throw things either. Mrs. Hudson did – the baker downstairs had full proof of that – but she hadn't come in – again dust showed its eloquence. The book had likely been placed there then, not thrown, and Mycroft wouldn't have left it out. It was possible someone else had entered the flat but not likely – which left John picking up the book from the pile of ASL materials by the ugly lamp behind the couch but not to read it. To use as paper – he didn't do that, - to use as a coaster – they didn't use them – or to cover his eyes – probable. That was the only other thing he'd seen John do with a book. The pillow dent attested to it too – John had fallen asleep on the couch. He never did that unless he was keeping Sherlock company. Had waited up for him, then? 

Sherlock winced and walked into the kitchen. His experiments had gone undisturbed. There was a knife and a plate in the sink. The knife was covered in nutella – a snack of digestives, then. The plate had the remains of Chinese fried rice on it and the overly-clean stove confirmed it; microwaved left-overs for dinner. Sherlock winced again and pulled open the door to his bedroom. 

His heartrate quickened. Hell. 

_Where was John?_ Three remaining options: out of the flat, in the bathroom, or in his own bedroom. Sherlock grimaced and walked to the bathroom. A minute and a half would change nothing and he would be better off ready for bed when he checked upstairs for the man. 

He didn't like that John hadn't waited for him. Why? That was illogical. Sherlock sneered at his expression in the mirror as he squeezed toothpaste onto his brush. John would clearly be more comfortable in his own bed; the only reason for sharing Sherlock's would be to share in his company. Sherlock had left, John had chosen correctly. So why did he dislike it? Sherlock started brushing his teeth. 

Emotions were antagonistic to good reasoning and yet he couldn't get rid of them. He could either be happy or unhappy; and by rights happy was far more pleasant. Which meant, unfortunate that it was, that he had to find a way to keep John happy and sleeping in his bed – because illogical though it was, it was what he _wanted._ Sherlock spat his toothpaste into the sink and rinsed out his mouth. 

He made sure to make noise up the stairs, banging against the floor and walls so John wouldn't wake up with him in the doorway. By the time he got upstairs John was awake in his bed, glaring at him out of one eye. Sherlock hovered, unsure what to do. He didn't want sex, he knew how to start that, but how did he – could he just climb in? 

John threw back his covers, revealing half of the bed and closed his eye again. Apparently, yes. Sherlock accepted the quiet invitation and pulled himself under the covers, letting his bathrobe fall to the floor beside him. John pushed himself back in the bed until his back was pressed heavily against Sherlock's chest, apparently not minding the effort even at the early hour. Sherlock was grateful for it – his half of the bed was cold and he pressed himself forward against John's back. He felt John's spine vibrating and wished that he could hear it. A growl? Words? There was no way to tell. 

The deafness wasn't worth it. 

Sherlock growled at the thought and leaned over the bed to pull his laptop up from the floor. He did not have enough data to determine whether or not he should reinstate his deafness given the chance; emotions were clouding his reasoning yet again. Being deaf closed off an almost utterly useless source of sensory information; that was perfect for clear reasoning. Sherlock flipped open the computer against his pillow and let the light shine over his face. John grumbled and shoved his face into his pillow. Sherlock smiled to himself, opening his blog. 212 different deterioration rates in the Thames and their causes. 

Nothing had changed. Relief was swamping his body. He had John – forever now, nothing in the way – and nothing had changed. God, it was brilliant. 

~~/~~ 

**A/N: Please please let me know if you like it?**


	11. Chapter 11

~~/~~ 

John looked up from his paper the next morning to see Sherlock coming out of the kitchen, yesterday's paper stuffed in his hand. 

" _Boffin,_ Boffin Sherlock Holmes," the man scoffed out, throwing the newspaper onto the coffee table and striding for the the deerstalker left on the mantlepiece. He snatched it up, only to glare at the thing. John waited until the man had met his eyes in the mirror. 

"-Everyone -get -one," he stated. 

"One what?" Sherlock turned in his pacing to face him. 

"-Newspaper -N-I-C-K -name," John replied, shrugging. "-Don't worry, -soon -I-get-probably -I." 

"Page five column six, first sentence," Sherlock replied. God, it was easy to forget just how much information Sherlock had in his head all at once. 

John checked the papers, not bothering to ask. 

_**The deaf detective was assisted by interpreter and confirmed bachelor John Watson.**_

"Why is it always the hat photograph?" Sherlock ranted, punching the thing. John glanced up. 

_Confirmed Bachelor John Watson?_ They would have a field day with their relationship when it came out. 

"What kind of hat is it anyway? Is it a cap? Why does it have two fronts?" 

"-Name -D-E-E-R-S-T-A-L-K-E-R," 

"You stalk a deer with a hat?" Sherlock asked, sounding baffled. 

"-Hey," John waved. 

"What are you going to do, throw it? A kind of death-Frisbee?" 

"-Hey!" John repeated. 

"What? And it's got flaps? It's an ear-hat John!" 

"-We -need -decide. -Our -relationship; -we -allow -newspaper -know -or -hide it?" John asked, deciding not to bother to wait until Sherlock faced him, trusting that the man would be able to read his signs in the mirror. 

"How would we avoid it? And why? What would there be to gain?" Sherlock asked, staring at him. 

"-First; -my career. -Second; -gay -people? -Some -people -hate; -Third, -now -that -not -D-E-E-R-S-T-A-L-K-E-R. -Now -that -hat -S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K -H-O-L-M-E-S. -You -not -private -detective. -You -almost -famous. -More -newspaper -interest -don't -need," he warned. 

Sherlock shrugged, apparently dismissing his career, homophobes and bad press all together. He tossed the hat onto the coffee table and slumped into his chair. 

"Oh it'll pass," Sherlock dismissed. 

"-Better -yes. -Newspaper -agent -will -change -mind -and -hate -you. -Always -happen -with -time," John replied. 

Sherlock put his foot up on the coffee table, crushing the hat. 

"This really bothers you," he said and John blinked. 

_Well, yes._

"What people say about me, I don't understand. Why would it upset _you?"_

_Ow._

John glanced down, clenching his jaw for a moment to gather his thoughts. 

"-We -together. -My -job -protect -you," he said finally. 

"Is this the damn .. press conference thing all over again? If they think badly of me it reflects badly on you?" Sherlock growled, pulling his bathrobe up around himself again. 

"-If -I -look -bad, -don't -care. -I -care -you -happy -you," John answered before rubbing his forehead. Sherlock looked genuinely confused now. "-This -week, -you -just -find -little -case, -yes?" 

"Not if you won't tell me why," Sherlock grumbled. John went back to his paper, suspecting Sherlock would listen to him. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock flipped next to him on the couch that evening, his hip barely brushing John's. John kept tying up his blog, glad for what had turned into an almost day long break from ASL as Sherlock typed up the results of his latest Thames experiment. 

Without a word Sherlock spun around on the couch, planting his head firmly into John's lap and circling his legs up into a platform for his laptop. 

_Okay..._ John thought, glancing down. Sherlock was staring at a wall firmly, like he'd made some strong statement. John shrugged quietly and nodded, dropping a hand down to fiddle with the man's hair. Sherlock's body slowly relaxed into the couch and John went back to his blog, deciding not to mention the whole sleeping together 'partners' thing to the world at large. They'd find out soon enough and no doubt it would be miserable when it came. 

He woke up with a crick in his neck and a very awake Sherlock pacing around the room with his violin in his hand, looking bored. 

"-I -go -sleep," John informed him, crawling up from the couch. 

"My room's clean," Sherlock said, though it sounded like an order. 

_Good,_ John thought, shuffling toward the bedroom. He was far too tired for pleasantries anyway. 

~~/~~ 

"-Don't," John ordered, dropping his newspaper onto his lap when he saw Sherlock walking past with a bottle of firestarter and the deerstalker hat in his hands. 

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, looking aghast at the thing. 

"-Smell. -Go outside," John replied. Sherlock nodded swiftly and turned toward the stairs. 

"Right," he agreed and trotted down the steps. John nodded to himself and picked up his newspaper. Finally, life was getting back to normal. 

~~/~~ 

"There's not enough data," Sherlock growled, staring at the useless case file. 

It was, at least, a little case. A man whose wife had run off with the kids. A man in Switzerland, fortunately – not worth going to visit, at least not at the current interest level and with a rather piss-poor photographer for a client. There was nothing more they could do tonight. 

John approached Sherlock cautiously. The man had stopped pacing to stare out the window, frustrated and tense. Not a good mood to bother him, usually, but John wondered... 

He ran his hands down Sherlock's back, the silk shirt chill and smooth beneath his fingers. Sherlock stiffened, his shoulder blades sticking sharply out beneath his palms. John ran his hands over the man's back and down his ribs to grip at his sides. Sherlock started to turn and John let him, feeling the muscles twist beneath his fingertips. Sherlock stared down at him, his eyes darting over his face, his expression caught somewhere between restlessness and intrigue. 

_Want more intrigue,_ John thought, pulling the man's head down for a kiss. 

Fuck, but it was Sherlock Holmes, a man with a mind like an engine beneath his hands. John kissed the man's mouth softly and Sherlock followed suit, leaning down to copy him. John didn't want to mess anything up, wished for a moment he had spent his life sleeping with more men, cataloging exactly how to do this. John moved to the man's neck, biting against his collar. 

"-Come -bed. -Work -have -nothing -more -do -tonight," John signed, pulling away. Sherlock looked uncertain and John moved in to kiss him again. Sherlock pressed his face into his neck, smelling at his hair. 

"John-" he started, and it sounded too uncertain. 

"-Sleep, -don't need," John promised. Sherlock's face lit up, a smile twitching at his mouth. He leaned down and John grinned, kissing him again, stepping back toward the kitchen. Sherlock moved forward, pressing him back again. 

"We need to put lube in this room," Sherlock complained and John laughed, agreeing. Sherlock pressed him back again, moving his hands over John's chest and John happily backed up toward the bedroom. 

~~/~~ 

"-Wait -that -mean -he -already -kill -that -man -how?" John asked, holding up the photograph of the second crime scene floor. It was just another alleyway to him. 

"Footprints," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up from the tube schedule from five years before. The was apparently an ongoing collection of them in their bookcase. John had had no idea. 

John scanned the photograph again but he still didn't see any footprints. He picked up the still-shots of their quarry the police had gathered and started going over them again. Thomas Hoyleden walking into a bank; walking into a casino; a composition of video feeds from inside the casino. John shoved the tape in and let it play, pretending he was doing something useful before Sherlock exploded. The man was barely able to stay sitting down. The case had dragged on for far too long due to foreign police incompetence. 

John blinked. The camera wasn't zoomed up, but he thought – John took out his own wallet, glancing at his card. Blue. Okay. He watched the video again. A green card – yes, that's what he'd thought. John pulled himself out of his chair and shifted to where he'd put Hoyleden's items. The wife had sent them everything she'd had. Which – yes, he'd remembered right – included his wallet. And his green credit card. John rewound the tape. 

Why was Hoyleden at a bank that wasn't his? 

"Sherlock," he called, before he turned. Sherlock was snarling at the papers in front of him. Right; he was an idiot. John waved his hand quickly and Sherlock turned to him. John held up the card and the picture of Hoyleden entering the bank, knowing that would be enough. Sherlock's eyes widened. 

"He's with Cheryl Ager," he said, a grin breaking across his face as he vaulted out of his chair. 

_Who?_ John wondered but Sherlock looked ecstatic and he didn't bother asking, grabbing for his coat instead. It was midway through April but the nights were still cold and he had a feeling they'd be out for awhile. 

~~/~~ 

_Yes._ Sherlock felt the thrill of the chase settle over him. This was not a series of dead ends anymore. John had handed him the answer and he could _focus_ now, his mind as clear as day again. John and all his discomfort had faded into the background as it should. 

Cheryl Ager, the only female employee at the bank. Sherlock had thought the man had been dressed too nicely. The police tapes caught nothing but an aborted attempt to threaten a bank teller into allowing a withdrawal over limit. 

"Ha!" Sherlock laughed aloud. Now to find Ms. Ager – likely the new Mrs. Hoyleden now. Sherlock had crowed with joy when John had called the bank and confirmed that Ager had simply transferred to a different bank. He ran out of the cab. Now they just had to confirm Hoyleden's presence before they alerted the Inspector. 

~~/~~ 

John watched Sherlock stand serenely in front of the London flat block as the children were escorted back into the arms of their hysterical mother. Lestrade and Donovan were standing with them, looking fairly overwhelmed. Sherlock's maniacal grin had yet to fade. The thrill of the chase still upon him, then. 

"-Smile -less -maybe? -Scared -mother -and -all?" John stated. Sherlock turned to face him and his eyes caught John's gaze before slowly raking over his body. John raised his eyebrows, surprised as hell. 

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulder and pulled him slightly, turning him toward the cab behind them. John let him. 

"Come on, John! There's an owl in our bedroom I want to get back to," he demanded, striding for the cab. 

John practically _felt_ Lestrade's eyebrows rise. 

_Well. That secret won't last long,_ he thought, nodding slightly to himself. He didn't look at either of the Inspectors; they could stare all they wanted. He strode after Sherlock, glad to see the man waiting; something Sherlock only did for him. 

~~/~~ 

A black limo pulled up in front of the clinic the next day, just as John was walking out. 

_Of course._

John stepped inside, knowing he'd rather submit than get caught in a ridiculous power play with the elder Holmes. 

Anthea – or whatever her name – didn't look up from her phone and John pulled himself in beside her, suddenly wishing he'd looked up the definition of psychopath between learning a new language and getting involved with his flatmate. She said nothing and John followed suit, happily uninterested in pursuing her. 

She led him to a grand marble home by 10 Downing. John followed her inside, guessing he knew where he was. It was easy to imagine Sherlock here. The home was an old Tudor style monstrosity and the front door was pulled open for them, revealing an entry way of heavy furniture and deep-colored rugs. Anthea led him through the home and up a grand staircase to bring him to a set of double doors at the end of the upstairs hallway. She tapped on the heavy oak door and John took the time to glance around the wide hallway, trying to imagine a child growing up there. It wasn't easy. 

"Enter," Mycroft's voice called lightly and Anthea pushed the door open for him. Mycroft was seated at a large, bare desk but he stood up as John entered. 

"John!" he welcomed, as if surprised, "please, sit down." 

John nodded his thanks but stayed standing. He heard the door close behind him and Mycroft smirked slightly, returning to his seat. 

"So, I understand you have engaged in a sexual relationship with my brother," he stated. 

_Right._ Of course Mycroft would just state that. John nodded to himself, pressing his lips together. 

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business," John replied steadily. Mycroft smiled slightly, evidently catching the parallel. 

"It could be," he answered, his lips pinched in his creepy version of a joking smile. 

"It really couldn't," John replied. Mycroft nodded quickly and got up from his desk to walk over to the small table of drinks he had set by the window. He glanced at John and John shook his head, refusing. 

"You know, Sherlock never had any interest in sex before you came along. Ever wonder why that is?" Mycroft drawled as he poured himself a scotch. 

John felt his eyebrows furrow, remembering Sherlock standing at the door frame, uncertain how to start anything - only to be so eager to touch him anywhere he could. 

"Somehow I find that difficult to believe," John replied. Mycroft turned back and leaned on the edge of his desk. 

"Because it's false. Still, I wondered if that was the appeal of it. The first lover to Boffin Sherlock Holmes. Flattering, I imagine, and I understand there's a great deal of publicity involved in it lately,' Mycroft replied easily before taking a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning over John's face. 

John had a feeling he was halfway through some elaborate test. 

"Right, are we done?" John demanded, turning to go. 

"Why did you learn sign language for him?" Mycroft asked as John walked for the door. 

_Because I love him._

John froze. Mycroft was definitely not being the first to hear him say that one. John pulled the door open. 

"Have you told him?" Mycroft asked. 

John walked out, grateful as hell he remembered the way out on his own. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope when John tapped him _again._ He said he was _busy;_ he'd just started this experiment after the sex last night and he'd only had half of his brain on it at the time. It was only because this was the _work_ that he didn't have to redo the first ten slides. 

John was frowning at him. Angry with him, worried, or uncertain. Sherlock thought back; he hadn't done anything that day that had not yet been tested post-relationship and in those trials nothing had changed. Angry with someone else, then? Only Harry could get the man frowning so deeply. Impossible to know if she'd contacted him. Worried, perhaps? Why? Or another emotion entirely? 

"-He -come -back," John signed. Pronouns didn't have gender in their sign language. It was intolerable. She? He? It? Lestrade, Mycroft, Anderson, Molly, Angelo – he wasn't due back from vacation for two days – Peter Ricolleti – had escaped or something similar? Lestrade would have called – Moriarty? Lestrade would not have texted over something Anderson or Molly said; Angelo did not have their number; John wasn't bothered by Mycroft anymore. Oh, hell. Harry or Moriarty, then. 

John showed him the text, confirming it. His hands were sweaty but dry at the fingertips; he'd been reading something on paper. 

_**Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x**_

He was back. Sherlock glanced at John's face, wondering if the man knew yet that this was going to ruin everything. Probably not. 

~~/~~ 

End of Part I 

**A/N: Look for the sequel "At a Loss"**

**My book is coming out! It will be available to buy in print soon, find it here for Kindle:**

[**http://www.amazon.com/dp/b00u8cr1l6**](http://www.amazon.com/dp/b00u8cr1l6)


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